


Wolves on the Street

by countessrivers



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Blood, Cannibalism, Choking, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Drugging, Frottage, Hypnotism, M/M, Mild Gore, Mind Control, Non-Consensual Touching, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, hannibal vibes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-01-15 06:40:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 28,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21249071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/countessrivers/pseuds/countessrivers
Summary: There's just something about Jim Gordon that brings out the worst in people.A collection of one-shots featuring bad guys doing terrible things to Jim(Warnings updated as chapters added)





	1. Jim/Oswald

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 1: Jim Gordon/Oswald Cobblepot - No Man's Land, injured Jim, Hannibal-esque Oswald, cannibalism  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back baby. With some cannibalism (minor actual cannibalism, references to canonical cannibalism, and imagined more extensive cannibalism).
> 
> In a similar vein to 'Is it Prey, On Display (I'm Feeling Weak)', this will be a collection of generally unconnected short fics where the villains do terrible things to poor Jim and he suffers very prettily while they do so. I feel like this is going to be even more niche than any of my other fics, but like the saying goes, write the gross porn you want to see in the world. 
> 
> Additional warnings for some non-consensual touching and some murderous, violent, non-con-y thoughts.

The plan, honestly, had been to fix Jim up and send him on his way. Or if he hadn’t been up to walking away on his own, calling Bullock and having him come collect his injured, wayward leader. 

Oswald wasn’t even going to do more than observe. When his men had dragged a bloody and unconscious James Gordon into his stronghold, spinning some tale about a skirmish between the GCPD and the Low Boys, and how they had found the bleeding man, still clutching his gun, not far from the edge of Oswald’s territory, and what did he want to do with him, sir, Oswald had told them to put him up on the table in the dining room and call the doctor. 

Only he’d followed them, looked at Jim, spread out on the table, face pale and dirty, shirt stained red, his chest rising and falling with each shallow breath, and he’d found himself shouting at everyone to get out. 

They’d frozen, unsure of what he meant, but scrambled quickly enough when he’d screamed at them again, one pausing only long enough to hand him the detective’s gun, leaving Oswald alone with the bag of medical supplies, and a still unconscious Jim. 

Which is where he is now. 

Jim twitches, groaning softly as Oswald untucks his shirt from his pants and starts unbuttoning it. The blue cotton, and the white vest underneath have done little to hide or stem the flow of blood. He notices that Jim’s left hand and the edges of his suit and shirt cuffs are also stained red. Rolling Jim’s undershirt up his chest pulls out another groan, the fabric having stuck to the tacky blood, meaning Oswald has to pull to uncover it. He’s not entirely careful about it. 

And if Oswald finds himself unbuckling Jim’s belt and undoing the zipper so he can slip his pants further down – not quite off, but low enough that he can see the faint trail of hair leading to the waistband of his underwear - it’s only because of the blood. Oswald needs to know exactly how bad the wound is. 

He opens up the bag the doctor had left, pulling out what he thinks he’ll need and then snaps on a pair of surgical gloves. Upon closer inspection it becomes apparent that Jim had been stabbed, rather than shot. It’s not a particularly deep wound, but it’s wide, and messy, and it starts sluggishly bleeding again as Oswald prods at it. 

Though still unconscious, Jim actively tries to pull away, half rolling onto his side when Oswald pours antiseptic over the wound, a sound like a moan falling from his lips. Oswald pushes him back down and shushes him, cleaning the wound and surrounding skin, Jim’s moan echoing oddly in his ears. Oswald watches Jim’s face closely as he wipes up the last of the blood. He’s pale, though somehow still flushed under the layer of dirt and sweat that covers him, eyelids fluttering in shallow, troubled sleep, and a frown creasing his forehead. 

As an experiment, Oswald digs his nails into Jim’s stomach, and watches him huff out a soft breath as his head twitches to the side. Reaching towards his pile of tools Oswald picks up a pair of tweezers. There are bits of fabric stuck in the wound, the result of the knife going through three layers of clothing before hitting skin, and leaving them there is just asking for an infection. God knows the current state of Jim’s lodgings aren’t exactly hospital clean. 

He pokes around at the wound as gentle as he can bring himself to be, picking out any foreign material he spots, but he finds himself distracted by the way Jim’s hands keep twitching at his sides, nails scraping against the wood of the table, and the soft, pained noises he keeps making as Oswald works. 

Though wary of Jim waking up, he can’t stop himself from bringing a bloody hand up to touch Jim’s face, fingers brushing along his brow, down his nose to his cheek, and then across his mouth, leaving scarlet streaks as he goes. The warmth of Jim’s skin, the feel of it, is muted through the gloves, but to simply touch is almost good enough, even with the barrier. And the picture it paints, the picture Oswald paints across Jim’s face with Jim’s own blood stirs something in him. Something hungry. 

The hand on Jim’s face and the hand still holding the tweezers clench involuntarily when Jim’s tongue darts out and swipes across his bloodstained lips. The familiar and almost inescapable urge to follow that tongue with his own rises up, and it’s even harder to resist, knowing that this time, if he did, he’d also be tasting blood. 

It happens a lot, Jim licking his lips. A frustratingly, maddening amount. Usually when they’re close, when they’re all but breathing the same air, when Oswald threatens him. He wonders if Jim does it on purpose, if he knows he’s doing it. If he knows exactly what kind of message the action could arguably send, what it might invite. Or if it’s a subconscious reaction. 

As he pulls his hand back, Oswald wonders which of those options he’d prefer. 

He drops the tweezers back in the tray and places a temporary bandage over the top of the knife wound, deciding, as he pulls off his gloves, to check Jim over for any additional injuries before sewing it up. There are no other obvious bloodstains on his clothes, but all the same he drags his hands slowly over Jim’s torso, up his shoulders under his bunched-up clothing and then down his arms, feeling for anything abnormal. There’s a bruise blooming on Jim’s right side, as if he was kicked or thrown into something, but Oswald doesn’t feel anything out of place and the skin’s not broken. He slides his hands under Jim as much as he can, feeling along his back. It’s not ideal but trying to roll him over on his own isn’t particularly feasible, so Oswald’s blind handling will have to do. 

Jim seems to react to the touches, almost leaning into his hands, and shifting in a particularly interesting manner when Oswald’s palms move across his lower back. When he looks up at Jim’s face though, his eyes are still closed. His breathing as steady as it has been, though shallower than is probably normal. 

Oswald, however, finds himself breathing a little heavier, because he is genuinely trying to make sure Jim doesn’t have any other life-threatening injuries that will make all his hard work a waste of time, but there’s something about having him laid out like this, unaware, defenceless against anything Oswald might choose to do to him. The last time he’d felt like this around Jim had been during those early months of the Pax Penguina. When he’d been able to isolate, corner Jim, remind him exactly how powerless he was in the face of all that Oswald had built. When he’d been able to show Jim and the city exactly how much Oswald owned them. Him. 

As short lived as it had all been, before Jim had gone running to the Falcones, and _she _had slithered her way into more than just Jim’s trust, the feeling had been heady, and Oswald hasn’t forgotten it. 

He runs his hands up Jim’s right leg, pausing at the ankle when he finds a knife strapped beneath the pant leg. He leaves it, because he has plenty of knives of his own and he’s not feeling petty enough to steal Jim’s, and continues up over his calf, his shin, touch firm. When he reaches Jim’s thigh, he stops. For all the strength in that collection of bone and muscle, Oswald has always thought of the spot as a deceptively fragile part of the body. Skin on the inner thigh that much softer. Blood vessels so close to the surface. One cut, deep enough, in the right place and you bleed out. Perhaps it is the proximity to other, more intimate areas that feeds this perception, but he lets his fingers wander, imagining he can feel the blood rushing under Jim’s skin. 

His hand brushes against Jim’s cock. It’s a light touch, would be barely perceptible even if Jim hadn’t still been wearing his pants, and Oswald doesn’t expect a reaction. It’s thrilling to do so anyway. 

He moves to the other side of the table to examine Jim’s other leg. No knife, but his ankle appears mildly swollen, as if he’d rolled over it recently. Nothing close to debilitating though, and as with the rest of him there’s no additional injuries that Oswald can see or feel. He runs his fingers along Jim’s hip bone, dipping below the open waistband that’s already sitting low, touching bare skin once again. 

He’s never had a chance to touch Jim like this. Oh, they’ve touched before, but shaking hands, vice-like grips on arms, hands fisted in jackets, and pushing each other up against a wall is not the same as being able to put his hands on Jim. He’d touched a little, that time he’d rescued him from Theo Galavan’s men. Mostly in the car away from the warehouse, because after that Ed had been there, and Oswald hadn’t felt comfortable continuing, indulging like that with such an audience. 

(In hindsight, Oswald can say with a fair amount of certainty that Ed wouldn’t have had a problem with him touching an unconscious Jim Gordon. Ed probably would have enjoyed watching, if not joining in himself). 

But this is different. Here, now, there is no one to interrupt him. No one to stop him from going as far as he likes. Only Jim himself, and there are ways around that. The medical kit was well stocked, and included, from what Oswald could see, at least one sedative. And barring that, it wouldn’t be hard to rustle up some restraints. There’s probably even a pair of handcuffs in the bloody suit jacket his men had dropped on one of the chairs earlier. 

Because Oswald is doing Jim a kindness. He doesn’t have to be taking care of him. He could have easily left him to the doctor, told his men to take him directly back to the Green Zone, or else just dump him out in the gutter and be done with it. But Oswald didn’t, so surely, it’s only fair that he gets something out of it too, even if it is just a chance to _touch, _ instead of simply _look _for once. 

Or maybe something else. The other thing Oswald has wanted from Jim from the first moment he saw him in the alley behind Fish’s club. The thing he’s craved, dreamt about for years. 

Just a little. 

Just a taste. 

His eyes can’t help being drawn back to the open wound in Jim’s side. 

And isn’t that how Jim and Oswald have always worked? One exchange for another? The scales might be more heavily weighted in one direction from time to time, but they eventually balance out, one way or another. 

Oswald wants. Badly. 

It’s clear to him that Jim is, for the most part, uninjured, the knife wound being the only real issue, but just to be safe, Oswald checks Jim’s head too. Because he can, he takes his time in running his hands through Jim’s hair, across the back of his scalp, feeling for any lumps or cuts, but also just touching. There have been times in the past where Oswald has looked at Jim and thought about fisting his hand in that fair hair and dashing his head against the nearest hard surface. He thinks about the same thing now, but also about how Jim might look if Oswald used that same grip to pull his head back, or hold him in place, move him as _he _decided. 

His examination finds nothing, no lumps or tenderness or bruising that Oswald can see, and his hands come back clean of blood. It’s unlikely then that Jim has a concussion, and therefore all Oswald has to deal with is the stab wound. Most likely Jim’s unconscious state is due simply to a combination of blood loss and fatigue. 

Because while Jim’s still clearly in excellent shape, there’s a mild leanness to him, in his face, in the way his sleeve cuffs and waistband seem a bit too loose. It speaks of hunger, and if he hadn’t already known about the slim pickings available in the Green Zone, Oswald would have been able to tell just by looking at Jim, who, martyr that he was, was probably also turning down meals on the regular. To say nothing of the deep black circles under his eyes. 

Jim brings it on himself, though. As he always does. 

And Oswald’s so glad that things worked out the way they did. Declaring a bounty on Jim had been a rage and pain fuelled response to a messy situation. But Jim had shot him, and it had _hurt_, and Oswald feels it’s understandable to have been the teeniest bit peeved off about it. Had he the presence of mind at the time he probably would have ordered Jim brought to him alive, but he remembers being so furious, pleasing images of Jim being hunted, beaten down, torn apart by the city’s gangs dancing through his head, and so, he’d said what he’d said. But, and he’ll never say it out loud, to anyone, he’s relieved things basically resolved themselves. Upon sleeping on it, and upon ingesting a number of strong painkillers, he’d almost regretted being so hasty in calling for Jim’s head. It’s a bit of a pattern with him, with them, he must admit. But it’s not as if he could have just called it off, not without losing face. Lucky for Jim then, that he’d survived long enough for the Haven ugliness to sort things out for them. 

What a waste it would have been, to have only ended up with Jim’s head. 

(What a waste to have not been the one to kill him himself. After all, they’re old friends. Jim deserves more than that.) 

And once again, Jim’s stubbornness and recklessness and virtuousness have brought him to this point. Brought him bloody and dirty and unconscious to Oswald as what’s left of the city struggles to keep its head above water. 

Oswald’s laughter rings out in the near empty room, because it occurs to him. All those traits, all those things that make Jim who he is, that make him a relentless thorn in his side, haven’t just brought Jim here. 

They’ve brought Jim quite literally to his _table _. 

And it’s really that ridiculous, morbidly comical thought that does it, that makes the decision clear. A sign even, combined with the weight in his stomach that has been growing and growing the longer his hands were on Jim, becoming a gnawing hunger that Oswald cannot ignore. 

There’s a sedative in the bag. 

Jim need never find out, no one else will know, because Oswald is only going to take a piece. A bite. And half the work’s been done for him already. 

He only wants a taste. That’s all. 

And it’s been months. For the entirety of the time since the bridges blew and the city was cut off, Oswald hasn’t eaten human flesh once. 

There are a number of reasons for that, and in his domain at least, they’ve haven’t been driven to cannibalism in order to survive. Not yet anyway. Oswald’s been making do, exerting his power in other ways, and any cravings he may have had have been easy to suppress. 

Until now. But then Jim has always managed to get under his skin and tease out the parts Oswald would rather keep nice and orderly and under wraps. Only fair then, that he should return the favour. In a manner of speaking. And Oswald isn’t usually one to deny himself the things he wants, though he has patience aplenty. Their history may paint Jim as one of the few exceptions to that, but right now, there’s no argument he can think of that’s convincing enough for him to stay his hand. 

Oswald wants, and so he’s going to take what he wants. 

Decision firmly made he returns to the medical bag and pulls out the vial and syringe. Stitching up a wound is something that can be explained, something that probably wouldn’t trouble Jim too deeply. Jim waking up to find Oswald cutting off a piece of him? Not so much. 

He fills the syringe and slides the needle into Jim’s neck, depressing the plunger and emptying it into his bloodstream. It takes a few minutes for it to work, but it’s noticeable when Jim slips into a deeper, sedated unconsciousness, the tension in his body, not obviously there until it’s gone, draining away, his breath finally evening out completely. 

Pulling on another pair of gloves and setting aside an extra small, surgical tray, Oswald turns back to the knife wound. He pulls off the now bloody bandage, and picking up a scalpel, sets to work. He cuts carefully, wiping away the blood as he goes, slicing out a small, thin piece of flesh, the size of two mouthfuls at best. Nothing Jim will miss, and nothing that will be noticed, given the mess of the injury to begin with. It’s nowhere near as much as Oswald would like. In an ideal world he’d be taking at least a limb, or an organ or two, if not practically everything, the extras kept and stored away for a rainy day as it were. That’s how he usually worked. But his usual approach isn’t feasible right now. 

(For now, he tells himself. Later. One day he’ll have everything, he just needs to be patient). 

Placing his sample on the tray he proceeds to sew Jim up, steady hand working neat-enough black stitches into Jim’s skin, pulling the edges of the wound together. It’s slow going, but Oswald is determined to do it properly, as much for Jim’s ongoing ignorance as his survival. It will almost certainly scar, but Jim is no stranger to scars, and Oswald finds he rather likes the idea. It’s just as much Oswald’s mark now as it was whoever had stabbed Jim in the first place, and he enjoys the idea of Jim looking down at his body and seeing a reminder of him. 

After tying off the stitches he wipes the surrounding skin, cleaning the rest of the blood and covering everything with a bandage. He looks at the bloody scalpel and before he can really think too hard about it, he picks it up and brings his mouth. He closes his eyes as he runs his tongue along the flat of the blade, a shudder running through him at the taste. Rich and metallic and everything he’s imagined and it’s not enough, not nearly enough because Oswald wants to drain Jim dry, but it’s something. 

He licks the sharp blade clean, careful not to slice open his own tongue, then drops it with the other used tools, discarding his gloves as well. Picking up the other tray, he smiles down at Jim and pats him on his still blood-covered cheek. 

“Don’t go anywhere. I won’t be long.” 

City Hall’s kitchen facilities aren’t anywhere near as nice or equipped as his own back at the mansion, but they are all Oswald has, and for his purposes, they do just fine. They have power, enough for Oswald to switch on the stove, leaving a pan to heat while he searches through the cupboards for anything else he may be able to use. 

It’s a shame, almost, that Oswald’s first taste of Jim will be like this. A tiny piece, obtained and stolen by chance, denied the preparation, the presentation it, _he _ , _they both _deserve. But maybe it’s better this way. Better that Oswald will be having Jim, and nothing else. Nothing to distract from the taste of him. Oswald having, owning, consuming Jim pure. 

The cupboards are sparse, containing the bare minimum, but he makes do. The piece he took from Jim is thin, so it doesn’t take long to cook. Oswald is perhaps overly wary of over-cooking it, but he feels that’s understandable, so he takes care to fry it gently. 

Oswald has made meals ranging from acceptable to excellent, and for the most part, regardless of what he himself does, it usually comes down to the meat. Cuts and cooking and preparation make a difference, of course, and there are ways, diets of a sort, that can influence how an animal is going to taste long before it’s ever slaughtered. 

(He’s never had cause or excuse to use the latter knowledge. When the urge strikes, or when an opportunity presents itself, Oswald kills and takes what he needs. He hasn’t ever, seriously, planned for that long term. 

He thinks about it though. About what he could do if given the time. If he had someone locked away, all to himself. The things he could do, the ways he could improve them, perfect them, ready them. To make it that much better when Oswald finally consumed them.) 

In the end though, it’s about the meat itself, as unpredictable as that can be. 

For instance, he hadn’t been lying when he’d told Grace her son had been far too gamey. Oswald had barely been able to get through a single mouthful. His vicious little step-sister had been better, while Grace herself, or at least her lungs and liver, had been delectable. And you would never have picked it, looking at them. 

And though the less said about the pies that Pyg lunatic had forced on him, the better, that might have had less to do with the meat, and more to do with the cook. What can one expect from a serial killer who walked around with a rotting pig head over his face, after all? 

But Oswald has high hopes for Jim. 

What the kitchen lacks in food stuffs it makes up for in crockery and utensils. Oswald picks out the nicest place he can find out of a seemingly endless collection, along with a silver knife and fork. He then slides the cooked meat from the pan and arranges it in the exact centre of the plate. After a moment of deliberation, he searches out a wine glass as well. He might not have much in the way of seasoning, and his plate is relatively bare, but he does have wine, so he pours himself a generous glass before picking up it and the plate and returning to the dining room. 

He seats himself in a chair on Jim’s left, arranging the plate and glass and utensils around the man’s arm. A quick glance tells Oswald that Jim hasn’t bled through his bandages, nor does he appear to have moved at all in the time he was gone. He picks up his drink and raises it in a salute in Jim’s direction. 

“To your health, Jim.” 

Taking a sip and replacing the glass, he looks down at his plate. It really is only two bites, and not generous ones at that. Still, Oswald picks up his knife and fork and meticulously cuts his meal in half. Swallowing, almost nervous all of a sudden, he brings the fork to his mouth. 

The thing about wanting something, fantasising about something for so long is that expectations can’t help but be built. Whatever it is, built up into something so unattainable that reality can’t help but be a disappointment. 

Oswald can admit, he’d been worried. 

He shouldn’t have been. 

Even plain, cooked in nothing but a bit of oil with some salt, Jim is the best thing he’s ever tasted. He, the meat, is so tender that it all but falls apart in his mouth. There’s nothing but him, no other parts or flavours to detract from experiencing, enjoying the most important bit. His step-siblings, his traitorous, murderous bitch of a step-mother, the dozens and dozens of others Oswald has killed over the years, none of them even compare to this one small piece of someone who has been a friend and an ally and an enemy and something unnamable to Oswald for years. He can hardly bear to swallow, wanting so much to keep the taste of Jim on his tongue forever. 

He stares at Jim as he brings the second, the last, piece to his mouth. Stares at the messy hair that falls over his face, the blood smeared cheekbones, the soft, open mouth as he eats and chews and swallows. 

He stares at Jim, laying there, unaware of just how at Oswald’s mercy he is. Unaware of what Oswald has taken from him. That Oswald cut into him, and then sat down next to his vulnerable, injured, supine body and ate a piece of him. Ate it and enjoyed it and craved more. 

And Jim will remain unaware, unless Oswald should decide to tell him. 

Oswald lurches to his feet, dropping the fork, chair scraping against the floor as he carelessly pushes it back. Taking Jim’s face in his hands, he leans down and kisses him. At first, he just presses their lips together, fingers digging into Jim’s cheeks and jaw hard enough to probably raise a complaint were the man awake enough if feel it, but soon enough he’s licking at the traces of dried blood still smeared across his mouth. It’s the perfect complement to the part of Jim he’d just eaten, and the blood tastes better coming straight off Jim’s skin, rather than a cold, metal scalpel. 

He bites at Jim’s bottom lip, tugging and pulling at it with his teeth. He bites down hard, splitting the skin and tasting the resulting rush of fresh blood. If Oswald backed off now and looked, that plush lip would be fuller than usual, swollen and wet and red. He doesn’t stop though, instead just pushes his tongue into Jim’s slack mouth. 

It thrills him to think, that while he runs his tongue across Jim’s, along his teeth and the inside of his mouth, a part of Jim, however unaware and subconscious it is, is tasting himself on Oswald. Is tasting not just his own blood, but his flesh. The meat, the fat and the muscle that Oswald cut out of him and ate and swallowed down. He moans, the sound muffled into Jim’s mouth, and clutches at him harder. He imagines what it would be like, to watch Jim taste himself for real. He drags a hand down Jim’s neck, down past the clothes still bunched up around his shoulders. Drags it across his chest, scraping at a nipple as he brushes past it and then clawing at his stomach as his hand wanders further down. He touches Jim’s cock again, firmer this time, pressing and moving his hand hard enough that Jim could conceivably feel it, would probably arch up into it if he was awake. He does it because he can, thrilling almost because Jim doesn’t, can’t. 

He touches Jim and kisses him and thinks of all the ways he wants to own him. 

Oswald eventually pulls back, catching his breath and wiping at his own mouth before brushing his thumb along Jim’s. Jim has yet to stir, but that’s no surprise. If cutting off a chunk of flesh and then sewing up the wound, not to mention the time and noise it had taken for Oswald to leave, cook, return, and eat the aforementioned flesh, hadn’t woken Jim up, then a kiss and a little petting certainly wasn’t going to do it. Maybe if Oswald decided to shove something else into Jim’s mouth, and maybe push it a little, or a lot deeper. 

It _would _be a nice way to wake Jim up, and even if it didn’t, enjoyable enough on its own. The possibility of Jim coming to as Oswald used him, took what he wanted from him. Struggling, choking, lurching back into awareness as Oswald soothed him. Oswald running a hand up and down his flank, brushing over his bared, arched throat while watery eyes stared up at him in confusion, fear, _lust_. 

He’s thought, a number of times over the years, about scratching those pretty blue eyes out (though he doesn’t _r__eally _want to blind Jim, because that would mean Jim wouldn’t be able to see him, look at him, and Oswald wants Jim to look at him. Ideally Jim would look at nothing _but _him). Clawing at that handsome face too, and cutting out that righteous, sanctimonious tongue. 

And then eating it. 

Eating all of Jim. Taking bites out of him, drinking down his blood, slicing bits off. Breaking him open and pulling out all the beautiful, delicious things inside. Consuming him. 

He wants to. God does he want to. He wants to own Jim, possess him, have him so completely. 

But not yet. If, _when_, he takes Jim, he’ll do it properly. He’s wanted to, fantasised about it for years, about as much as he’s thought about what it would be like to touch Jim, to fuck him. He’s dreamt about getting Jim over for dinner, watching him unknowingly eat a meal Oswald had prepared from someone he had killed - maybe even from the victim of a murder Jim himself was investigating. He’s dreamt about the look on Jim’s face when he realises what Oswald has done, and what he’s going to do to him. He’s dreamt about how Jim would taste. 

And now Oswald knows. He’s had a taste, he’s done even more today than he ever thought he’d have the chance to do, and it’s so much harder to pull himself back under control. 

He manages it though, by focusing on the future. Their future. For now, he’ll let Jim sleep off the sedative. He’ll either let him walk out of here when he wakes, or he’ll let Jim call for someone to come and get him. 

He’ll let Jim go. 

But when the time is right, he’ll make it last. Lock Jim away somewhere where it’s just the two of them, where he no longer has to share him with the rest of the world, and savour him, savour every piece, every part of him. Have Jim in every way he can. 

And Oswald will save Jim’s heart for last. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can also be found over here on [tumblr](http://countessrivers.tumblr.com/).


	2. Jim/Tetch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim Gordon/Jervis Tetch - 'One of My Three Soups', hypnosis/mind control, non-con.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU and/or missing scene from 'One of My Three Soups'.
> 
> Check tags and warnings.

The doors to the radio station are unlocked when Jim arrives, but he enters cautiously all the same, gun drawn. An obvious trap it may be, he’s not going to make it _that _easy for Tetch. He meets no one though, as he makes his way through the corridors. There are no goons waiting to attack him, and no bodies, which Jim can only hope means that Tetch let them all escape, and not that he had them leave and kill themselves elsewhere. Maybe they’re up on the roof too. Maybe they’ve climbed to the top of the radio tower and are standing, ready to jump. 

Reaching the broadcast studio, the man in the control booth doesn’t acknowledge Jim’s approach, if he even registers that he’s there at all, hypnotised as he most likely is. Tetch, with his back to him, doesn’t notice either, too busy gleefully urging Gotham’s citizens to climb up to their roofs so he can tell them to throw themselves off. Jim edges the door to the studio itself open as slowly as he can, not wanting to alert Tetch to his presence, and as he steps into the room, he catches the end of what has to be the latest round of repeated commands. 

“When the bell strikes twelve, throw yourselves pell-mell, over the edge and onto your heads.” 

Darting forward, Jim clamps a hand over Tetch’s mouth, flicking the safety off his gun and pressing the barrel roughly against his head. 

“Shut up, Tetch,” he says. 

Jim feels Tetch laugh, feels him smile against his hand, but he ignores it as he drags him out of his chair and shoves him across the room. He turns back to the equipment, flicking the switches that will put him on the GCPD’s frequency, but makes sure to keep his gun trained on Tetch the entire time. 

“This is Captain Gordon of the GCPD,” he says into the microphone. “Am I coming through?” 

“You’re coming through.” The relief in Harper’s voice is audible. “They can hear you all over the city.” 

Jim flicks the microphone off and turns back to Tetch, who’s still standing exactly where Jim had pushed him, hands raised in surrender, but with a worryingly pleased look on his face. 

“All right, Tetch. You’re going to tell those people to step back from the ledge. No tricks. You go of script and I’ll shoot pieces off you until you do what I say.” 

“I would love to do as you command, Jim,” Tetch says, before breaking into laughter. “But sadly, I’ve tied my own hands.” 

Jim grits his teeth. 

“Your hands.” he grabs Tetch by the front of his ratty Arkham uniform and walks him backwards to slam him against the door. Tetch is still laughing, but before Jim can fully consider the merits of shooting a hole in one of the aforementioned hands, Tetch sobers and jerks forward in Jim’s grip, bringing their faces close. Jim moves to pull back, but Tetch catches his eye and clicks his tongue disapprovingly, and for some reason, Jim freezes. 

“If you would please,” Tetch says, in that awful, insidiously gentle way of his. “Put the gun on the floor, James, dear, or things will start to get messy precipitately, I fear.” 

There’s no ticking. He had been prepared, waiting, ready for Tetch to pull out the watch, ready to shoot it from his hand the second he did, and as a result, he hadn’t been guarded enough against Tetch’s voice itself. Against how easy it was, how easy it’s always been for that voice to slither into his head and take control. He thought he’d be safe. 

Jim should have known. Tetch hadn’t needed a watch or much build up to get hundreds of people to stop what they were doing and climb to the top of the city’s skyscrapers. He’d just needed his voice. Jim should have been prepared. 

Jim really should have taken those cotton buds from the car’s First-Aid kit. 

His hands are shaking as he lets Tetch go, and he can feel the command as it echoes around inside his head, latching onto his brain, his hands, his legs and feet as he takes a step back and crouches to place the gun on the floor. There’s a moment where Jim shakes his head, as if that could help shake Tetch’s voice loose, and his fingers brush against the gun, and he thinks that, no, he doesn’t want to do this. Putting down his weapon in the presence of this man is a stupid, dangerous thing to do. Jim shouldn’t. He _wouldn’t_. 

But then Tetch steps forward and kicks the gun aside and Jim loses the thought in the clatter as it spins away. He moves to stand, but Tetch puts a hand on his shoulder, pushing down firmly. 

“No, no, stay right down there. On your knees, no trying to go elsewhere.” He keeps pushing until Jim loses his balance and his knees hit the floor. 

“It’s been too long, Jim. Far, far too long.” Tetch runs a hand through his hair, almost like he’s petting him. “All I’ve had are memories and the lovely jagged scar you left me with. Arkham can be so lonely, especially when the guards ignore you so.” 

Jim knows what he’s talking about. He can’t see it, but he can picture it well enough. He’d needed the blood, _they’d _ needed the blood, and he hadn’t exactly been...gentle. 

The blade in his palm, the look in Tetch’s eyes. The scream when he’d finally removed his hand. The blood. 

In his memories so much of that day is nothing but blood. He feels sick whenever he thinks about it. 

“I have made some friends though,” Tetch continues, smiling down at him. “Wonderful new friends, who were more than happy to talk and chat and commiserate with me. Made friends with friends of yours even, who’ve told me how busy you’ve been, how hard you’ve been working, how hard you worked to earn that Captain’s chair.” 

Jim feels himself frown. Friends? What in god’s name- 

Oh. 

The promotion. 

The only one, the only one Tetch would have talked to, had the chance to talk to about _that_... 

No one’s seen Oswald in weeks. The last time Jim personally saw him had been in his car with Lee in the driver’s seat as it sped away. He’s been lying low, Jim would wager, licking his wounds, regrouping, and there’s no reason to think he was involved in the breakout. It would bring him nothing, after all. Take advantage of the situation? Possible, probable even, but helping orchestrate it himself would be of no benefit to him. But then, maybe it’s not about that. Maybe it’s just about_ him_. Maybe... 

They’d been fine, as fine as they ever were. Before Harvey had slapped the cuffs on him Oswald had taken his hand, they’d agreed to take down Sofia together. But that was after. Before... 

Oswald may have taken a break from screaming about Zsasz as Jim had put him in the back of the car, but only because he’d quickly turned his ire onto him, and among the general threats, there had been some choice words as to exactly_ what _Oswald thought Jim was. 

Tetch’s interactions with others in Arkham, whether they were visitors, guards or other inmates was supposed to be tightly controlled. But he’d clearly been able to conspire with Valeska and Crane, so it was entirely possible he’d had contact with Oswald too. Entirely possible that they’d talked. Talked about_ him_. 

_ How hard you worked to earn that __Captain’s chair_. 

An uncomfortable weight settles in Jim’s stomach at the way Tetch is still stroking his hair, and it’s enough that he’s able to flinch, trying to pull away. The touch turns harsh, fingers gripping his hair hard enough to hurt, strangely distant though the feeling seems. 

“Uh-uh,” Tetch tuts, looking down at Jim as he bends his head back at a painful angle. “I told you, you must behave, if your own skin, and others, you wish to save.” 

Jim’s eyes feel heavy, and it’s a struggle to keep them open. He wants to sink down. He wants to stay where he is. He wants to get up, get away. He wants- 

“You want to be good, don’t you, Jim? Of course, you’re _not_. Far from it, in fact. The opposite really. A _l__iar _and a _killer_. But you _want_ to be.” 

“Yes.” 

Jim does want to be good. He wants to be a good cop, a good person. He wants to save people. He’s trying. After Sofia, and the Pyg. He’s trying so hard, so hard to be good. He’s- 

“And I can help you. I can help you be so very good, as long as you listen, relax, and do exactly as I say. As long as you _obey_.” 

Tetch lets go of his hair and Jim allows his head drop. He stares without really seeing down at the floor. He can see Tetch’s shoes, can see the way his own hands are shaking at his sides. 

Why are they shaking? 

Why isn’t he getting up and finding his gun and-? 

Why would he want to get up? Tetch told him not to. 

_ Behave. Listen. Be good. _

Jim looks up to see Tetch fumbling with the waistband of his uniform. He watches, unmoving, as he pauses to pull off his gloves and toss them to the floor. Watches as he reaches in and pulls out his cock. Tetch watches Jim watch him. Strokes his cock a few times, urging it to hardness as his eyes jump between Jim’s face and his body and his hands still fisted at his sides. Keeps watching as he steps in closer, one hand moving to the back of Jim’s head, the other holding his cock so that he can drag it across Jim’s face. 

Jim feels the sticky wetness Tetch leaves as the cock brushes over his cheek, across his mouth. Jim...doesn’t move. Just thinks about partners of the past, men he’s gotten on his knees for, the ones that told him he had a face that begged for, that was made to be covered in cum. The memories feel pulled, rising and swimming through his head almost unbidden. 

He wonders if Tetch is going to- 

Jim should- 

He should be- 

“Open.” 

He does. Jim swallows, lets his jaw loosen and his lips part. He stares up at Tetch’s face rather than his cock as it slides into his open, waiting mouth. Tetch looks down at him, at his mouth, smiling. He laughs. 

“Good. So very good, James.” 

He doesn’t push all the way in. Doesn’t thrust to hit the back of Jim’s throat, to choke him, the way a part of Jim (the part that still cares, the part that’s chanting _no, no, __no,__ what are you doing, why are you letting him do this, stop, stop _over and over) would have expected him to do. Jim’s holding only the first few inches of Tetch’s cock in his mouth, letting it sit on his tongue, and it feels- 

Wrong. 

Sickening. 

Right. 

“Such a shame,” Tetch says. “A tragic waste, that we didn’t get to play while my dear, sweet Alice was in you.” He runs his fingers under Jim’s eye, across his temple. The virus is long gone, even if, in his darker moments, Jim worries, wonders, but he can almost feel a flutter in his veins, a heat in his face, his eyes, as if his blood has turned hot. As if it was straining, rushing at Tetch’s very touch. 

It feels almost the same. 

Or maybe it’s just because there’s a murderous lunatic’s cock in his mouth and Jim’s having trouble breathing around the panic that’s ebbing and flowing through him. 

“And you were so beautifully monstrous with my darling sister inside you. Perfect. Utterly perfect.” Tetch pats Jim’s cheek, and then with both hands in his hair, pulls his head forward, sliding his cock further into Jim’s mouth. “Would that you had torn them all apart, James. Nygma, Kean, even Cobblepot and your partner. If only you had killed them, then we could have been alone together. Just the two of us. And Alice, of course.” 

Tetch moves his hips slowly, in shallow, almost gentle thrusts. He isn’t quite large enough for it to hurt, but Jim still has to stretch his mouth wide to take him, and he knows that before long his jaw’s going to start aching. It feels...right, though, and Jim can’t stop himself from swallowing, from automatically adjusting his breath, and the angle of his head to something he knows will allow him to breathe easier around the cock in his mouth. 

He doesn’t- he doesn’t want to think about what might have happened in that warehouse. Bad enough, the things he did do while infected. If he’d let slip his control for even a second, if he’d stopped fighting, if he’d given in, god knows what would have happened. 

Jim doesn’t want to think about it. What he might have done. What Tetch might have done. 

_ Killed them. You could have killed them all. It would have been so easy, and you were so, so angry. Angry at them for putting the city at risk, for putting their greed, their grudges, their own petty wants over the lives of millions. _

_ You could have done it. You wanted to. You could have. _

_ Then it would have been just the two of you. You and him and the virus in your blood. _

Jim wants to bite down. He wants to scream. He wants Tetch’s voice out of his head. 

He wants Tetch to come in his mouth. 

He runs his tongue along the underside of Tetch’s cock, bobbing his head along with each thrust. He stares up, up into Tetch’s black eyes, unable to look away as he mouths at the head, tasting, before sliding back down, further this time. His hands move, reach up and forward to grab at Tetch’s hips. Jim squeezes, and he can feel the bones under his hands. He’s pushing Tetch away, holding him off- 

No. Jim’s giving himself leverage. He’s using his grip to encourage Tetch to move, to use, to fuck his mouth harder. He swallows and sucks and licks, keeps moving his tongue and his head. There’s spit dripping from the corners of his mouth and he can taste the cum leaking steadily from Tetch’s cock. The slick, wet sounds echo in Jim’s ears. The huffs of his own breath, and Tetch’s above him. He shudders at the obscenity of it. 

And he keeps looking up. Doesn’t look away from the eyes burning into his. He can’t. 

“You want this, don’t you, James?” Tetch punctuates his question, his statement, with a particularly hard thrust, and Jim gags as the cock hits the back of his throat. His eyes water and he feels himself heave. He wants to pull back as he starts choking, but his body won’t listen, even when Tetch grabs his hair viciously and holds him in place. 

“Don’t. You. Jim?” He can’t look away. The words are heavy, weighted, and they sink deep into his head. 

No, he doesn’t. God, he doesn’t want this. Why can’t he stop? 

Why would he stop? Stopping is- Tetch doesn’t want him to stop. Jim doesn’t want to stop. He wants this. 

He wants this. 

Tetch loosens his grip, lets him go, but Jim keeps going, keeps bobbing his head, keeps sucking the cock in his mouth, only now he’s pushing himself further, taking Tetch’s cock deeper, because it’s clearly what the man wants. It’s been a while since he’s done this with the real thing, but he still knows what to do. Knows how to let the cock slide into his throat, how to breathe around it, how to keep swallowing, so that every time Tetch pushes back in, Jim takes it deeper, takes it until his lips are wrapped around the base and his nose is pressed against Tetch’s skin. 

And he’s hard. Jim’s jaw is starting to ache, as he knew it would, and each time Jim swallows him down, Tetch holds him in place a little longer. Long enough that he begins to feel lightheaded, the rapid breaths in and out through his nose and the brief respite when he’s allowed to pull back not enough. But he’s still hard. He can still feel how tight, and uncomfortable his pants are. How his own cock presses at the fabric, leaking into his underwear, more and more with every thrust. 

Jim’s hard from nothing but sucking a cock. He’s hard from nothing but having his mouth fucked, and he doesn’t want this, but he does, and he can barely hear the voice anymore. The voice that’s screaming in his head, screaming that he needs to fight this, fight Tetch. 

Tetch does stop though, his cock slipping from Jim’s mouth as he takes a step back. He keeps a hand in Jim’s hair, holding him in place, and there’s a moment where Jim realises that he’s straining forward, resisting the hold, trying to get his mouth back on Tetch’s cock, and it’s like a bucket of ice water being poured over him, the horrifying understanding jolting him awake. 

He freezes, aware like he wasn’t before, and Jim tries to think, tries to plan a way out of this, but his thoughts keep slipping away and it’s hard to hold on to anything for longer than a moment. Anything apart from how it felt to have a cock in his mouth. How he could make it good for Tetch. 

_ Be good. _

Jim tries though. He tries to get a hold of himself, tries to shake off the fog. He needs to. People are in danger, _he’s _in danger, but then Tetch’s hands are on his face, coaxing him to his feet, and things go hazy again. 

“Up, up, on your feet, Jim. More time to kill, more fun to be had,” Tetch says, as Jim sways on the spot. Once again, he’s caught in the other’s gaze, heartbeat loud in his ears as those black eyes swallow up every thought he has. Tetch pats at his face, runs a hand through his hair, and Jim feels himself lean into the touch. 

“So much more to do.” Fingers brush over his lips. “More than just that mouth, I want from you.” 

Hands push at his shoulders and Jim takes a step back, and another, and another, until Tetch is turning him around to face the audio desk. Jim can see the attendant, or whoever he is, still in the booth, but he’s not paying them any attention. He’s hot even looking at them. 

Hands push again at his back, urging him to bend, and he does. He lets Tetch push him down, lets Tetch bend him over the desk, only not really. The hands are barely pushing at all. Jim’s the one who’s bending. And it hurts to bend over, to press his chest into the hard, unyielding surface of the desk. Weeks of the hospital and forced leave and he's still a mess of bruises and stitches. Four bullets. A miracle, luck to beat the devil, even with Lee there. Jim had honestly been surprised to wake up at all. 

(Surprised. Disappointed. Wished he hadn’t. 

Will he walk away from this? When Tetch is done, when he’s done using him, will he- 

God, this is his first night back on the job.) 

He does it anyway. Because it’s what Tetch wants him to do. 

It’s what Jim wants to do. 

“Perfect,” Tetch breathes in his ear and he leans over him, chest against his back, legs pressed together, cock- “So good, James. So well behaved.” 

Hands move to his hips, pull at his belt, his fly. Jim, eyes squeezed shut, scrapes his fingers against the desk, buries his head in his arms, bites his lip as his pants are pushed down past his thighs. His underwear too. 

The ‘no’ is on the tip of his tongue but he can’t push it out. 

Jim shudders as Tetch’s hands ghost over his skin. Up his thighs, his hips, across his stomach. One slides up his back under his clothes while the other reaches beneath him to wrap around his cock. Jim bucks into it, even though the feel of Tetch stroking him, the way he brushes his thumb across the wet tip, makes his skin crawl. Even though it feels like the best thing ever. 

Jim hears himself whine, and Tech shushes him, the hand on his back stroking in a way that might be soothing, pleasant even, if it was someone, anyone else. He finds himself relaxing anyway, letting Tetch touch him, singularly aware of his cock and the hand on it and Tetch’s own cock and the way it’s pressed against him, leaving wet trails on his bare skin. 

He manages to bite back another whine when Tetch’s hand stills. When he lets go and actually steps away, but his breath catches in his throat when that same hand reaches up to tug one of his from where it’s still pillowed beneath his head. Grip firm on his wrist, Tetch brings Jim’s hand behind him, moving it to rest against his ass. 

The urge to hiss, to whisper, to shout ‘no’ is there again, because Jim knows, somehow, without Tetch having to say a word out loud, exactly what he wants. What he wants Jim to do. But the word gets caught behind his teeth once again, even when Jim brings his hand back around and slides a finger into his mouth. A litany of ‘no’s’ tumble around inside his head as he sucks on his finger, as he wraps his tongue around it and gets it as wet as he can. He feels almost like he’s floating, his head one step behind the rest of his body when he then reaches back and, without any additional preamble, pushes the finger inside himself. 

It hurts. 

It hurts, and Jim has to stop and grit his teeth. He usually eases himself into it. He usually uses something better than spit. But he hasn’t, isn’t, so there’s an edge to the feeling when he pushes the finger in. It doesn’t help that he’s tense, drawn tight again, his body rebelling against Tetch’s control in a rather useless and unhelpful way, sense and horror resurfacing as his mind clears a little, though not nearly enough, and quickly gone again. He tries to relax, tries to will himself to soften, if only to make it easier as he moves his hand, withdrawing the finger then pushing it back in. 

It works, maybe, sort of. Or at least it feels better the more he does it. The more he pushes the finger in and out. And…Jim’s always liked it best when it hurt just a little, the feeling just this side of painful, of too much. Tetch would want it to hurt too. 

There’s a shuffling behind him, the sound of Tetch doing something, but Jim can barely concentrate on what it could be, his head heavy and his own breath loud in his ears, each puff fogging up the surface of the desk. 

“That’s it, James,” Tetch says softly. “It feels good, doesn’t it? Feels just right, having something inside you.” 

Tetch’s voice is like a warm hand stroking down his back. Jim shudders, and it’s suddenly so, so easy to slip a second finger in beside the first. The noise that’s pushed out when both fingers are inside him isn’t quite a moan, but it’s something close, and it raises a laugh from Tetch anyway. 

He keeps moving the fingers, pressing them in and out, curling them, spreading them and feeling the stretch. Tetch is right, it feels good. It feels good to be touching himself like this. 

In and out. His hips start to rock, moving with his hand. He can hear himself making noises, soft, but audible to him at least. 

He’s not aiming for his prostate. He’s not even really trying to open himself up. He’s just...fucking himself. Just shoving his fingers in because he wants to, because he like how it feels, because he wants something inside him. 

Because it’s all he’s- 

Because Tetch- 

Jim can barely feel the pain from his injuries, or even the way his hand is starting to cramp up, his awareness simply having narrowed down to the fingers in his ass, how it feels when he moves them, when he clenches down on them, and the weight of Tetch’s gaze on him. 

Jervis Tetch thinks he sees Jim better than anyone. Maybe he does. Certainly, very few have seen him like this. But right now, Jim does feel seen. The eyes on him feel like hands, almost physical in the way they brush over his skin. He feels hot, exposed. Known. And he wants. And he’s not stopping. 

But there’s something wrong, something not quite right. It’s not- It’s not enough. He needs- He needs- 

No, he should be- 

Jim looks to his left and sees the radio, the broadcasting equipment. It’s right there. If Jim just reached over. If he just stood up and- He could call Harper, or Harvey. Someone, anyone. If he stopped- If he kept fighting, he could- 

“You’re so tired, aren’t you Jim? So alone?” 

He is. 

“You’ve driven everyone away.” 

He has. God, he has. 

“Everyone who loved you, who believed in you. Better for them, I’d say, escaping before you killed them, one way or another, but not so much for you, I’d wager.” 

“Yes.” 

He’s not sure what he’s saying yes to. ‘Yes’ to him being alone? ‘Yes’ to him destroying everything he loves? ‘Yes’ to it all slowly killing him? It’s all true, and Jim knows it, just as Tetch does. 

“You don’t deserve love.” A hand touches his hip. “But this?” The hand moves up, around, palming over his back before sliding lower and grabbing almost viciously at his ass. “Beg me, James. Beg me to fuck you.” 

_ You want this, Jim. You can’t break __Tetch’s__ control because you don’t really want to. Because deep down you want this. You want to be hurt and used and fucked. You want to be punished. That’s why you came, that’s why you refused backup, that’s why you left yourself vulnerable. You all but invited, begged, him to do this to you. Because you deserve it, and you know it. _

_ So, beg him now. _

_ Beg him for real. _

Jim feels like he’s standing on the edge of the roof, wind battering at him, ready to step off. It had seemed right at the time. The right thing to do. 

“Please,” he says. He spreads his fingers, stretches his hole open as much as he can even though it hurts. He’s not sure if Tetch can see, can see past his hand. Their own hands are bumping against each other. But it doesn’t matter. Jim feels empty. His fingers aren’t enough. He needs- 

He needs to run. 

No. 

He needs- 

“Please. Fuck me.” 

He keeps saying it, the word spilling out again and again as Tetch takes his hand and pulls it away from his body. Jim lets him, lets his fingers slip from his hole, feeling almost like a doll to be moved and placed as Tetch moves the arm and drops it back up beside his head. Both his hands then fall to his hips, petting lightly for a moment before twitching into claws that dig into his skin. He leans over Jim, pressing against him, and Jim can feel his breath on the side of his face, his hair brushing his cheek. 

“I’m going to give you exactly what you need, James Gordon.” 

Jim can feel- He can feel Tetch’s cock. The man rolls his hips in a parody of what’s to come, and his cock slides between Jim’s cheeks. It’s slick, wet. He’s obviously used something. _Brought_ something. 

Planned for this. 

All those times Tetch had him at his mercy. The roof, the hospital, Lee’s apartment, his own apartment. Had Tetch thought about doing this? Had he wanted to? 

Tetch’s hands let go of his hips, one of them, Jim can feel, moving to take hold of his cock, the other spreading his cheek. Tetch rubs the head of his cock against his hole, traces over it, and Jim can feel how wet it is. How much Tetch wants to- 

Jim feels himself clench down. Clench down on nothing. Nothing, for now. Not nothing for long, because Tetch- Tetch is going to- Jim's going to let him- 

No. Don’t. Please. 

Need it. Yes. Please. 

His breath catches, he stops breathing entirely as Tetch pushes in. He doesn’t go far, like before, only the head of his cock, but it’s enough. Enough for Jim to feel. He opens up around Tetch, his body letting him in. 

He keeps doing that. He keeps letting Tetch in. 

Jim hears Tetch sigh happily behind him, his hands moving back to take hold of his hips. His hole is stretched around Tetch’s cock, and Jim’s not sure whether he wants it out, or if he wants it deeper. He doesn’t know. He buries his head in his arms, clutches at his hair, because he doesn’t know. 

Tetch is controlling him. He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t- He doesn’t know. He can’t- He can’t- 

“None of that now, Jim. No hiding, no pretending, no lying.” The hands slide up under his shirt, stroking up and down his sides. “I would like your enthusiastic participation, or those poor people on the roof will be all the sooner on their way to damnation.” 

Jim pushes back. He has to. He wants to. He was told to. He pushes back slowly but steadily until his ass is flush against Tetch’s hips and he’s full. So full that it aches. That it hurts. The stretch and the burn and the feeling of being stuffed full of cock. He shudders, moves, pulls away, and then pushes back again. 

“Good boy.” 

Jim moans as he moves forward and back, fucking himself on Tetch’s cock. He chokes on what could be a scream and bites down on his arm as he moves, as he keeps moving. As Tetch starts meeting him halfway, hands hard and bruising on his hips. 

It’s good. It feels good. He is good. 

He lifts his head, stares unseeingly out, body jerking forward with each thrust as Tetch fucks into him harder, faster. He stops trying to keep rhythm, and instead just raises his hips into it, clenching down like he wants to keep the cock inside him longer. He’s hard too, and every now and again Tetch will brush against his prostate. But even when he doesn’t it feels good, it feels so damn good, and he thinks idly that he might just come from this alone, without a hand on his own cock. The idea should make him feel something, but he’s not sure what. Jim not sure what’s real. He can’t tell, can’t think. He wants and doesn’t want. 

_ What’s real is that you’re a whore. A whore, begging to be bent over and fucked until you’re all used up. It’s the only thing you’re worth. _

_ You want it. _

_ You need it. _

_ Tetch __knows. Sofia knew. _

_ Everybody knows. _

And that doesn’t sound like Tetch’s voice in his head. Jim’s not sure if it ever sounded like his voice. It sounds like his own. 

“Tell me how much you want this,” Tetch says. “How much you need this.” 

“Please,” Jim moans. His face feels wet, his sight blurry, like he’s crying. He thinks he might be. “Please. Fuck me. I need it, please. Fuck me, split me open, tear me apart. I need it, I deserve it. Please.” 

Nails rake across his stomach. A hand closes around the back of his neck, grinding his face into the desk. 

“James.” It’s half hiss, half sigh. “James, James.” 

Tetch’s thrusts become erratic, though all the more brutal for it, and Jim lays there, taking it, moving with it. 

“Please, please, please.” He’s not even sure if he’s properly vocalising. There’s a good chance he isn’t, but his mouth forms the words over and over all the same. He can’t stop. His heartbeat is pounding in his ears, he can barely see what’s in front of him, and he can’t think. But that’s fine, he doesn’t need to. All he can feel, all he needs to feel, all that matters are the hands on him and the cock inside him and Tetch’s voice in his ear. 

The hand on his neck squeezes and Tetch shudders behind him, cock buried to the hilt. He comes, spilling hot inside him, chanting his name, and Jim follows almost immediately after. 

Jim lays there, panting, feeling oddly weightless as he comes down. It's a struggle to keep his eyes open, so he lets them fall to half-mast. He’s acutely aware though of Tetch’s cock twitching inside him, his own cum splattered across his stomach and thighs. 

Tetch presses a kiss on the back of his neck as he pulls out and Jim can almost feel the hypnosis lifting, like a weight, a presence over him, in his head, suddenly gone. He feels cold, his body hurting in a way it hadn’t been before, almost as if Tetch’s control had muffled it, ensured that Jim couldn’t feel it, pushed passed it. His legs shake, and they might have given out if Tetch hadn’t crowded up against him, hands pulling once again at his pants, only this time, dragging them up, back into place. Jim winces, sensitive, as Tetch tucks him back into his underwear, but he takes the brief respite to think, now that his head is clear. 

The breakout. Jerome. The people on the rooftops. Tetch had said something about tying his own hands. 

The second Tetch is done refastening his pants, Jim stands and spins around. He clutches at the desk, glaring at Tetch, and ignores the way he can feel the man’s cum dripping out of him. Another suit lost. 

“Where’s Jerome?” Jim hopes the question doesn’t actually come out as shaky as it sounds to his own ears. Bad enough his voice is noticeably hoarse. Tetch smiles at him. 

“Out, his own errands to run. Asked me to keep you busy until he was done. And oh, wasn’t that fun?” 

A distraction. Of course it was. A dangerous and legitimate one for sure, but that just meant that whatever Jerome was up to had to be worse, for him to need this level of camouflage. It also meant that Tetch and Valeska were still working together, Crane too, if Jim had to bet, and none of that boded well for Gotham. He grinds his teeth, forcing himself to stand up straighter. 

“Where is he, Tetch? 

The man’s standing close, too close, and Jim can’t stand it. 

Tetch makes a show of looking to the clock on the wall. 

“Oh, look at that. Almost midnight, Jim.” 

Jim’s stomach drops. Midnight, the clock tower bells. That was the signal. 

“Tell them to stop,” he growls, grabbing at Tetch, twisting his fists into his collar. 

“I can’t stop them,” Tetch laughs. “If anyone tells them to save themselves, they’ll jump. But you’re more than welcome to try, Jim.” He jerks out of Jim’s grip, leaning past him towards the microphone. “Obey the next voice you hear!” he proclaims gleefully before Jim can yank him back. 

“Tell them anything,” Tetch says, pushing back into Jim’s space, face inches from his. “It will not matter when the bells start to ring.” 

Tetch leans in further, forcing Jim to bend backwards. He puts an hand on the desk to steady himself, and brushes against something heavy. He risks a glance down and spots a spare microphone, unplugged, with its cored wrapped neatly around the base. 

“Our fun before was just that, but your oh-so-callous caused the death of my darling Alice, Jim.” Jim looks back at Tetch, noting the almost manic gleam in his eye even as he takes hold of the microphone. 

“Try, and they die. Stand by, and they all try to fly.” 

Jim swings, and the microphone makes contact with the side of Tetch’s head, sending him crumpling to the ground. He doesn’t even pause to check he’s down properly, just steps over him and collapses into the chair. 

_ Obey the next voice you hear. _

_ If anyone tells them to save themselves, they’ll jump. _

Jim thinks. He can’t save them. 

He can’t- 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then he does save them because he's so smart and wonderful.
> 
> Also, for timing reasons, pretend Tetch called Jim and told him to come to the station right from the start, rather than head to the bridge. Harvey is still possibly up on a roof, but Jim wouldn't know that. Jim did after all, in the show, try to go after Tetch alone, so if he'd shot Harvey down, or gotten the call out of earshot, it's pretty easy to believe he'd go without backup.
> 
> My [tumblr](http://countessrivers.tumblr.com/) is over here, where I'm still definitely talking about Gotham.


	3. Arkham

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 4x02 'The Fear Reaper'. Lee isn't the only thing Jim sees under the influence of Scarecrow's toxin. (Attempted suicide, suicidal thoughts, self-harm.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No porn this time (emotionally cathartic/angst porn maybe?). Just an extension of Jim's solo excursion to Arkahm in 4x02, featuring extra feelings, extra self loathing, and extra whump. Hurt, with some minor self/hallucinatory comfort.
> 
> (Inspired in part by a lovely anon I got on tumblr, as well as my regular Jim Gordon-loving chats with Killer Rabbit of Caerbannog/dashokeypokey.)

“Cut deep.” 

It stings, when the razor breaks the skin. Red wells from the cut, dripping down his wrist, but it’s not enough. He needs to- 

“Cut deep.” 

He can’t let Lee hate him. He can’t let her die hating him. He can save her. He can make her happy. He just needs to- 

“Cut deep and find peace.” 

He should. It would be nice to sleep, to rest. He’s so tired. And if it meant he could keep Lee safe, if it meant he stopped hurting people, failing them... 

He should. 

“Follow her.” 

For a moment, Jim’s gaze drifts away from his arm, from the blade he’s holding against his wrist. He stares at the bath, at the bloody water sloshing against the sides and the pale arm draped over the rim. 

And he frowns, because...this isn’t right. 

Something’s wrong. 

Lee’s gone. She’s gone. She left Gotham, left nothing but a note behind. She’s somewhere else. Somewhere nice. Happy, Jim thinks. He hopes. 

He shakes his head, hands trembling. She wouldn’t. She wouldn’t do this. Even if she hated him, she wouldn’t- When she _had _hated him, she hadn’t- She’d wanted to punish _him_, wanted _him_ dead. 

Something’s not right. This, this isn’t- 

“Cut deep and find peace.” 

“No,” he says, and it feels like something more. 

“Oh.” That voice. It’s not his voice. It’s a voice Jim knows, though he can’t...he can’t put a name to it. He knows it though. “You’re fighting it. I’ve never seen someone fight this hard. Maybe you just need a little more.” 

Jim spins around, suddenly aware that there’s someone else in the room with him, someone _r__eal_, the voice no longer just in his head, but then he’s choking, thick, cloying gas filling his throat, his nose. Again. Bringing an arm up to cover his face far too late, he lashes out with the razor, swiping at a shadow, but it’s gone. 

“Who’s there?” he chokes out, as the lights above him flicker. He’s having trouble seeing. Having trouble remembering too. 

Jim rubs a hand across his face, eyes squeezed shut against the gas’ sting. 

He’s in Arkham, he knows that much. But why? 

He’s here to help. To see someone, maybe? 

No. 

He came to find someone. People are in danger. 

Yes, that’s it. That’s why he’s here. 

Crane. Jonathan Crane. He’d been so young, so scared. He’d been abducted by the gang that were threatening Oswald and his licenses, and then he’d taken his father’s toxin, put on a mask. He’d set the inmates loose, and the guards had called for help. Jim had come, had come alone, and Crane had cornered him in the office, held a blade to his throat, and then- 

That voice- 

_ Cut deep_. 

\- Lee. 

His hand clenches around the razor in his hand. 

Jim was alone. He came alone. 

He’s so alone. 

The bath is still there when Jim opens his eyes, the lights above no longer flickering, though there is no sign of Lee. He means to call out, but the bath starts to overflow, bloody-red water spilling over the sides. He stumbles back, but the water keeps coming, thickening, darkening as it spreads across the floor, lapping at his shoes. 

“Jim.” 

Another voice, this one soft, pained, and when Jim turns to look, he sees Valerie Vale, laying on the floor, her white blouse untouched by the encroaching blood, except for the steadily growing patch beneath her hands. 

“Jim,” she says again. 

He rushes over, dropping to his knees beside her, tossing the razor aside and ignoring the way the warm blood still spilling from the bath soaks into his pants. He presses both his hands over hers, trying to stop her from bleeding out. She doesn’t push him away, curse him the way Lee had. 

(Had she? Jim had been sure, so sure that she’d been there. No. He’d been sure that she hadn’t been there. 

How could she have been here? How can Valerie be here? They’re not. This isn’t-) 

Instead she clutches at his sleeve with a bloodied hand, face screwed tight with pain. 

“Hey,” he says, leaning down. “Look at me, Vale. You’re going to be okay. You’re going to be fine. I promise.” He can hear the catch in his voice, can feel the way his hands are shaking. “Come on Vale. Hold on. You’re going to be fine. Trust-” 

There’s so much blood. 

And it’s his fault. He knows, he knows it. 

Because he couldn’t save her. Couldn’t save _them_. Neither option was acceptable, and he just couldn't choose, so he made Tetch choose for him. 

They’d thought they knew. Both of them, Mario too. They thought they knew. But the truth was Jim didn’t even know. He’d picked Lee, picked because he had to, but he’s still, even now, not entirely sure what he picked her for. 

He’d been happy. For a brief moment he’d been happy with her. But it never lasts. Death follows him everywhere, and sooner or later, it catches up. 

It’s rarely ever him that’s caught. 

He might as well have pulled the trigger himself. 

He’d just wanted- 

It’s his fault. 

“Valerie, I’m-” Blood keeps spilling up and over his fingers, and she’s growing paler and paler. 

“Jim,” she whispers, like it’s all she has the strength for. “You- I-” There’s confusion behind the pain in her eyes, betrayal, and Jim doesn’t flinch from it, because he tried and he failed and he failed her. He doesn’t look away, even when her eyes go blank, and she shudders out one last breath. 

He keeps his hands pressed against her stomach for a long moment, as if it could make a difference. When he does finally let go, he brings them to her face, holding it as he leans down to press their foreheads together. Something heavy sits in his throat. 

This is his fault. He killed her. 

His fault. His hand guiding the gun. 

The blood keeps swirling around his legs and suddenly he’s not holding Valerie, but Sarah Essen instead. 

He jerks away, scrambling back. Something in his head, some part of him that feels distant, dampened almost, latches onto the sight, the strangeness of it. Valerie was here, it tells him, and then she wasn’t, because she was never here to begin with. Just like Lee. Here and then gone because they were never there at all. 

(You know this, Jim. You know this.) 

Valerie Vale is alive. Working at the Daily Planet last he heard. She’s alive, she’d _ survived _ the shooting, survived the bullet Tetch put in her, which means...this isn’t real. 

It’s not real. Jim’s in Arkham, Jonathan Crane gassed him, and nothing Jim’s seeing is real. Valerie Vale is alive, and Sarah Essen is... 

Dead. She’s dead. 

There’s blood on her shirt, just like there had been that day. The day she died. Her head is tilted towards him, her eyes open, and Jim’s sure he’s not imagining the recrimination frozen on her face. 

Because Jim should have been faster, better. He should have overpowered Helzinger. He never should have followed Barbara outside. He should have known it was a trap. _He should have been there. _

But he wasn’t, he failed, and while Jim was losing a fight, while Barbara held him down, while he was unconscious in an alley, his Captain, his Commissioner, was being tortured and murdered. Jerome Valeska murdered her in their own house, and she died on his desk. 

He failed. He couldn’t save her, couldn’t save any of the others who died that day, or in the days the followed. 

She died. She died and Jim should have been there. 

He can’t bring himself to reach out and touch her. She’s still, and Jim’s sure she’d feel cold too. The blood that’s soaking into Jim’s clothes, his palms where they’re planted on the floor, leaves her untouched, even as it ripples around her body, and he can’t tear his eyes away from the gash in her stomach where Jerome tore her open. 

Jim shifts back, further away from her, closer towards the wall, and as he does his hand brushes against something. He jerks away, heart jumping, and twisting around, he almost gags when he sees what he’s touched. 

More blood, smeared and dripping down the wall. Cracks spiderweb out from a crater in the tiles, and the blood streaks down from there to a body slumped along the floor, as if someone, something, inhumanly strong had dashed the other’s head against it. And Jim doesn’t need to see the face, though there’s not much left to it anyway. He knows that coat, that suit, that hair. 

“No, no, no, no, no.” His hands fumble over Harvey’s body, unsure of where to land, where to touch. Just looking he knows there’s nothing he can do, but he’s loath to make it worse, to do more damage. 

More damage than he’s already done. 

He chokes out Harvey’s name as his breath stutters, catches in his chest. On his knees, hovering over Harvey, Jim can imagine it, how it would have felt, how it would have sounded to slam him against the wall. The sickening, wet crack of it. The blood and the bone and the mess inside. 

He’d thought about it, on that train platform. Thought about it and wanted it. He’d wanted to hurt Tetch too. Barbara, Ed, even Oswald. Fish as well, for all that killing her had been an accident, an instinctual reaction to having such a threat sneak up on his unprotected back. The virus, the rage, his own voice inside his head urging him to kill, to make Gotham safer, to punish them all for putting innocent lives at risk with their greed and petty feuds. 

He could have. 

In those moments when he gave into the virus, surrendered to it. All the strength and the power and the focus it gave him. He remembers how it felt to not care about the cost. To not care about what happened to those who stood between him and- 

(Saving the city. 

Saving Lee) 

-his purpose. 

He’d thought about them dead. Wanted it. Wished it. And if he’d slipped, if he’d given in, he might have. He might have reached out, taken their heads in his hands, and- 

Harvey. Harvey telling him to wait. Harvey standing between him and Lee. Between him and happiness. Freedom. He’d wanted- He'd wanted to- 

Harvey, dead. 

Jim looks down at his blood-stained hands. 

Harvey is dead. 

He remembers. 

He remembers Lee’s hands on his face, turning him back to her, away from Harvey. Her mouth on his, her voice in his ear.

_He’s trying to stop us. You can’t let him. _

Jim, angry and afraid and desperate, heartbeat pounding in his ears, fisting one hand in Harvey’s jacket and raising the other, striking out- 

-and surfacing from the red long enough to pull his punch to the side so that it was the metal of the train car that caved around his fist and not his partner’s face. 

Harvey pressing the badge into his hand, telling him to do what he’d wanted to do from the start, what he’d been trying to do, what he’s always trying to do. 

(Save her.) 

(Save them.) 

Harvey caught in the crossfire, getting hurt, bleeding, dying, because he always had Jim’s back. 

Except...not anymore. 

Harvey’s not here. Harvey’s back at the station. He’d said “never”, and let Jim walk out of there alone. He’s there, not here. 

Jim’s here alone. 

And that means he hasn’t killed Harvey. He hasn’t, he hasn’t. 

(There’s a shadow in the room, one Jim can’t see. But he knows it’s there. He can feel it, feel it watching him. He can hear its voice, like a distant echo, ringing in his ears. 

“You’re fighting it. You’re still fighting it.”) 

But he could have, and now he’s here alone. 

And isn’t that his fault anyway? If he’d stopped Lee, if he’d fought the virus harder, if he’d gotten to the bomb in time, not only would so many people still be alive, not only would Bruce not be carrying the causeless burden of guilt for the bomb going off at all, the city wouldn’t have been in such a state that it turned to Oswald for some kind of mockery of protection. If Jim had been better, if he’d stopped the Court, then maybe Oswald wouldn’t have gotten his hooks in. Wouldn’t have killed his way to the top of the Underworld once again only to then turn around and buy City Hall. Buy the GCPD. 

Jim should have been paying more attention. He should have been better. The city needed him, and he failed. He should never have trusted- 

“Jim. Jimmy.” 

“No,” he whispers, staring resolutely at the wall, at the cracks no longer there. 

“It’s okay, son. It’s going to be okay. I promise.” 

“No, please, no.” A scream builds in his throat, but he chokes it back, tasting blood in his mouth. He squeezes his eyes shut. He can’t- He can’t- 

“You’re okay, Jimmy. You’re okay. You’re going to be okay.” 

He’s not. He’s really, really not. 

“Look at me, okay. I’m right here. I promise, I’m right here. It’s going to be okay.” 

He doesn’t want to look. He can’t bear to look. The voice is lying, it keeps lying. How many more lies is Jim going to hear? 

(How many more will he uncover?) 

It isn’t okay, and it wasn’t okay. 

Jim knows that. He remembers. 

It had taken emergency crews over an hour to cut him out of the car. He’d been awake, aware the whole time, pinned in place by the crushed car and the metal driven through his thigh. His screams had faded quickly, turning to almost silent, hiccuping sobs that just kept coming. He'd barely reacted when they talked to him as they worked, when they finally pulled him out, when they set him down on the stretcher and loaded him into the ambulance. He just kept seeing, even when free. The image burned forever into his mind. 

Him, trapped, unable to get away, even when he closed his eyes. His father’s body next to him, bloody and broken, still reaching out. 

“I love you, son.” 

The sob that’s been building in his chest finally escapes, even as he squeezes his eyes shut harder. Jim doesn’t want to look. He doesn’t want to see it. After Frank, after the Court, after Falcone, after the lies and the secrets and the death and all the ways he’s failed, all the ways he’s let down his father’s legacy. He feels nine years old again, and he can’t. 

He just can’t. 

A woman sighs. The sound is quiet, soft, but it echoes off the tiled walls, and Jim’s response is almost Pavlovian. The way he jerks around, looks, seeks her out. 

His mother, eyes red, sad as she looks down at him. The tilt of her mouth, the exhausted slant of her shoulders, the drink in her hand. So familiar. Blood moves around the edges of her heels, sliding off the shiny patent leather. 

No matter how hard he tried, he never could seem to stop disappointing her. Never could stop breaking her heart. He thinks it probably started the night they pulled him from the car alive and not his dad, but it never really stopped. He kept seeing that look. Kept causing it. 

When he was difficult. When the nightmares wouldn’t stop, and he’d wake the whole house with his screams. When he fought with his brother. When he talked back. When he got into trouble at school. When she’d catch him sneaking back in at two in the morning, or that one time with the police escort, stinking of alcohol, eye black, knuckles bruised, and lip bloody. When he joined the army. When he was caught in a back room at one of the fundraisers they were always invited to with a man who was, while not quite old enough to be his father, pretty damn close. When she found him on the floor of the bathroom, with a disposable razor and his wrists slit open. 

She’d given up after a while. Given up caring, trying. Would just look at him instead, sigh, like she didn’t understand what was wrong with him, why he was like this, why he kept doing this. 

Jim couldn’t give her an answer, even now. He has no idea what’s wrong with him. He only knows that something is. 

He wants to reach out, say something, apologise, call her back when she shakes her head and turns away from him, but he can’t fit his tongue around the words, can’t make himself get up from where he’s still kneeling on the floor to stop her. Just as he couldn't bear to see his father, Jim can’t bear to see her go. But he says nothing, does nothing, and in a blink, she’s gone. He’s alone, nothing but the sound of his own harsh, stuttering breaths and the blood on the floor to keep him company. 

He doesn’t want to be alone. He hates it, the loneliness that eats at him day by day. He wants, he needs. He craves with an ache inside himself that physically hurts. Companionship, comfort, love. Trust. Anything and everything. He’s dying for it. 

But at the same time, he isn’t. He doesn’t want. Because it always ends the same way. He’s never enough. Never enough to keep them, never enough to make them stay. Whether it’s his family, his lovers, his friends, his colleagues, it always ends the same way. They’re gone. And the hurt never gets easier to bear. 

He thinks there must be something jagged and broken in him, something inside that cuts and twists and ruins and kills everything that gets close. Or maybe it’s more like a magnet, a beacon, pulling and luring in the darkness that Jim then can’t help but reach out and touch. Can’t help but invite in, even as it lays waste to his life, to everything around him. He must ask for it in some way. Something about him must bring it on himself, because otherwise, why? Why does it keep happening? Why is he alone? 

Why keep going? Why keep trying? 

(“Find peace. Find peace.”) 

Jim blinks away the image of his mother, and in her place lays Katherine Parks, her throat ripped out. 

She was so young. So god damn young. And Jim let her die. 

The lights in the room flicker and he sees Mario, bullet to the chest. 

Frank, half his head blown away. 

Alfred, Lucius, Selina, others. Every time he blinks, someone else. Someone he knows, someone he loves. Some calling his name as they die, some cursing it, some already gone. Because of him. 

All him. Always him. 

Someone steps up behind him, legs pressing up against his back. They run a hand over his bowed head, fingers tugging at his hair, nails scratching lightly down the nape of his neck. 

“This is all you, Jim,” Barbara says. “All of it.” 

She crouches down, curling over him, her hand coming to wrap around his throat. She licks at his ear, pulls his earlobe with her teeth, and he freezes at her touch, chilled, his stomach roiling. 

“It’s not your fault, baby. You can’t help it.” 

She squeezes, tightens the hand around his neck while the other slides down over his thigh. Jim shudders, feeling her breath, her smile against his cheek as she presses closer. 

“You can’t help that you’re sick. Wrong. Damaged. That you bring death and suffering to anyone that comes near you. That you make people miserable. You can’t help it” 

Her hand drags down his chest, stopping over his heart. 

“It’s just how it is. Just how you’re made.” 

He lashes out with a shout, pushing her away just as her nails dig in, collapsing forward onto his hands, red seeping up and over them. Barbara disappears, he can feel it without needing to turn around, but there’s also an ache, a pain in his chest like her fingers really had sunk in. It hurts to breathe, each pull in and out like broken glass, and all Jim can do is stare at his own distorted reflection in the blood that covers the floor. 

A pair of shoes break the image, stepping up in front of him. He doesn’t bother looking up, his head too heavy to lift, so he just watches instead as they kneel in place. Hands reach out, soft as they cradle his face, tilting it up, and Jim lets out another sob, eyes closing against the sight. 

“It’s okay, Jim,” Bruce says gently. 

It’s not, it’s not. 

Who has Jim failed more than Bruce? He’s failed at protecting him, at giving him hope, justice. He’d been unable to give Bruce the closure, the peace of seeing those responsible for his parents’ death tried and put behind bars. Bruce had been held captive by the Court for weeks, if not longer, brainwashed and turned into a weapon, and Jim hadn’t had any idea. He hadn’t been there in time to protect Bruce from Malone. Hadn’t protected him from Jerome, from Galavan, from Strange, or any of the others who have taken and hurt Bruce over the years. He was always too late, too slow. The idea of Bruce in pain, of Bruce suffering is so abhorrent that Jim would give anything to prevent it. Do anything to keep him safe, keep him from giving up. 

He’s trying. He’s trying but it isn’t enough. 

He remembers the look on Bruce’s face when he came to him with the license. The look on his face when Jim told him there was nothing he could do. He remembers the shame he felt in admitting how trapped, how powerless to help he was. Admitting that those who were supposed to uphold the law, to protect the city and its most vulnerable had, to a man, turned their back on it. He remembers how it hurt to see a little bit more of Bruce’s faith get chipped away. Bruce deserves better. 

Gotham deserves better, and Jim’s not enough. 

He opens his eyes as Bruce lets go of his face, and watches as he takes his hands instead. He’s holding a cloth, and he uses it to wipe away the blood. His own hands are clean, and they remain clean even as he handles Jim’s. 

“I promise, it’s all going to be okay.” 

“Bruce-” 

Bruce shushes him softly. 

“It is,” he says, still wiping at Jim’s hands. “You can stop it, Jim. You can stop all of it. You know how.” 

“I don’t...” he trails off as Bruce tosses the cloth behind him, both their hands now immaculate. 

“You do. You do know how. You can fix everything, Jim. You can be free” He smiles, holding Jim’s hands between them, palms facing up. He keeps hold of Jim’s left, while in his right, he places a straight razor. 

(_The _straight razor.) 

“All you have to do is-” 

“-cut deep.” 

“Yeah, that’s right.” Bruce wraps fingers around Jim’s, around the razor, and gently guides his hand to wrist opposite. “You can do it, Jim. You can save them, save them all, save yourself. You can save Gotham. You can be free. Just cut deep.” 

With Bruce’s hand guiding him, Jim presses down. He’d already started. He just needs to reopen the cut, go a little deeper this time. 

“Cut deep and it will all stop.” 

Jim wants it to stop. Wants it so badly. 

He presses down and smoothly drags the blade across his wrist. Blood spills out, running over his hand and down his arm, and the pain he knows should come doesn’t. Instead it feels good, like a release. The blood on the floor, the blood from the bath, from all the people he’s hurt is gone. Now it’s his own staining the tiles. Better that way. 

He drops the razor as the blood keeps coming, running out and running over with each beat of his heart. Watching, Jim knows he cut deep enough this time. He slumps down onto his side, arm stretched out in front of him. He’s tired, so tired of fighting, of losing everything. Tired of not being enough. 

“Shh, it’s okay Jim. Rest. You can rest now. Just go to sleep.” 

Jim watches blood pool around his wrist for a moment, red spreading over floor, before allowing his eyes slip shut, body feeling heavy. He lets himself be dragged under, giving in. 

He’s just so tired. 

In the dark he feels something shift. He’s more comfortable than he should be, the tiles beneath him feeling strangely soft. Almost like he’s lying on a bed or a lounge. A weight falls on him, it too confusingly soft, as if a blanket had been draped over him. 

Maybe it’s just because he’s dying. 

“You expect to die!” 

Bruce? 

“I’d like to know why.” 

He knows why. He knows exactly why. Why it’s best for everyone if Jim just died. Hadn’t he just said so? Hadn’t he just helped guide Jim’s hand, given him the encouragement he needed to finally do the right thing? 

Except...no. He hadn’t. He’d pushed past Jim’s outstretched hand and wrapped his arms around him instead. Bruce had clung to him, shaking with the fear of...losing someone else. 

But that doesn’t- 

“You’ve been a really good friend.” 

Jim had been hurt. Bloody and aching and despairing, at a loss for where to go next. And then there was Bruce, with teary eyes and a trembling voice, curling into him. He’d come all that way, made Alfred drive him all the way into the city, because he’d been worried about him. Because he’d been afraid Jim had been hurt, or worse. 

Bruce calling him to tell him about Alfred being stabbed. The sandwich he’d made when he'd come to the Manor to visit. The smile on his face whenever Jim paid for lunch. The concern when he saw him strapped to that chair in Indian Hill. The neat line of stitches from where Bruce had sewn him up after Ed shot him. The way Bruce couldn’t quite meet his eyes from behind cell bars just this morning, telling a convincing enough lie, but accepting his insistence that they talk about it later. 

Later. 

Bruce wouldn’t want this. Bruce would never- He'd _never_. 

“Do you believe Gotham can be saved?” 

He does. He does. 

He’d meant it then and he means it now. Gotham isn’t lost. Its people aren’t lost. The innocent need protecting. They need justice. They need to be shown that they haven’t been abandoned, that not everyone has turned their back on them. And the others, the ones who have stumbled, who are falling, who are giving in, just need to be shown there’s a chance. A chance for them to do better, to be better. They just have to take it. They just have to know that they can take it. That they have a choice, no matter how hard making that choice can sometimes be. 

People need hope. 

And Jim wants, more than anything, to give that hope, in whatever way he can. He wants to make Gotham better. He wants to_ be_ better. He wants to try. He- 

He doesn’t want to die. 

Not like this. 

The darkness sits heavy on him, weighing him down, and it would be easy, so easy to just let it take him, the way he’d wanted it to only moments ago. Let his life slip away through his opened veins. But he’d been wrong, afraid. Drowning under it all. 

But not like this. Not when there’s still so much for him to do. 

He’s not giving up. He’s not giving in. He’s not going to die. Not yet. Not yet. He’s not- 

“There will be light.” 

“No.” 

His eyes snap open, taking a long moment to adjust, even under the dim lighting. He can feel his cheeks are wet, his head is pounding, and... he’s bleeding. He’s bleeding a lot. Rolling up onto his knees he pulls at his tie. It’s awkward to do one handed, every movement otherwise pulling painfully at the cut, but he manages it, gets the tie loose so that he can wrap it tightly around his wrist to stem the blood. 

There’s blood on the floor, a puddle of it, but not as much as there could be, not enough to be immediately life threatening. He mustn't have been out for very long. It’s still a struggle to get to his feet, head spinning as he stumbles over to the wall, needing to brace, steady himself. He wills himself not to pass out, pushes through the dizziness because he can’t afford to feint. Crane is still loose. He’d been in the room with him, Jim is sure. He has no idea when he left, or for that matter, how long Jim spent hallucinating, but he knows he was there, watching, even after gassing him the second time. He can’t have gotten far, but Jim needs to get moving. 

On shaky legs Jim heads back into the corridor and turns towards the office where he’d first found Crane. 

* * *

Crane’s long gone by the time Jim manages to cure the inmates and push past them to give chase through the door he’d seen him flee through. There’s no sign of him in the corridor, or in any of the adjacent rooms, and even if he was still in the building, Jim can’t search the entire thing on his own. Doubling back around to the warden’s office and checking the security monitors also fails to find him. Jim does, however, spot a group of doctors huddled together in an office nearby, seemingly having barricaded themselves in. Using a radio he’d found under the warden’s desk he manages to contact them, letting them know things were, relatively, under control, but that he’ll need assistance getting the affected inmates secured and seen to. 

The attack itself had been contained to the medical building, which was somewhat of a blessing, for all that Crane himself had escaped. The rest of the asylum had been locked down once the alert was sounded, the staff either fleeing or hiding. It made securing the patients easier, and soon enough he and the remaining staff members were able to get them all back in their cells, or in their beds. Some even climbed back into bed themselves, shaken and traumatised by the ordeal. A blessing too, that there had been no casualties. Some injuries, a few major, but no one had died. 

As the doctors check the inmates over one by one, Jim is pulled behind one of the curtains set up in the main room by a small, if intimidating woman who introduces herself as Doctor Whistler. 

“Detective Gordon, isn’t it?” 

“Uh, yes. But I really need to-” 

“Sit down and let me check you over? Yes, exactly.” 

She directs him to remove his jacket and shirt, which he does, leaving him in his pants and undershirt. He can’t quite hide the shivers brought on by the combination of being soaking wet and only half dressed in the chill room, and the doctor notices, taking a moment to pat him on the shoulder, promising to be quick. 

“Any trouble breathing?” she asks, running her hands up and down his sides and across his chest, probing gently, if deliberately. 

“A little,” he admits, because his chest and side do ache. He’d been thrown into enough walls tonight for there to be a good chance he’s cracked something, and on top of the beating he took in the locker room not two days ago... 

Whistler makes a considering sound as she pushes up his undershirt and looks. 

“You haven’t broken anything,” she says after a few moments, rolling the shirt back down. “But there is _extensive_ bruising, and more than a few places where the skin’s split. You might have a cracked rib too, I can’t tell from just a basic examination, but I’d recommend getting an x-ray as soon as you can. Breathing and pretty much any kind of physical movement is going to hurt for a while regardless.” 

Jim knows. Him and cracked, if not broken, ribs are well acquainted. Almost as well acquainted as him and painful bruises. 

Whistler continues to look him over, keeping up a steady flow of comfortable, if one-sided conversation. She checks him for concussion, and for any other major injuries he might have, bringing his attention to anything he’ll need to get a second opinion on, or else take care of himself. If he’s being honest, his entire body hurts, and even his legs are covered in scratches from inmates clawing at him as he climbed onto the table to set off the sprinklers. 

She eventually gets to his wrist, still wrapped in his now ruined tie. She’s gentle as she removes it, taking note of the way he winces when he moves his arm, the adrenaline that carried him through the fight long having worn off. Unwrapping the end pulls painfully at dried blood, and she pauses when she sees the actual cut. 

“Caught the bad end of a scythe,” he says, staring at a smudge of dirt on her collar. 

Doctor Whistler hums, and Jim can hear the weight of her disbelief because there’s no way the cut on his wrist was anything but self-inflicted, and she would know that. 

“Well it’s deep. Stitches deep, I’m afraid.” 

He listens for the judgement in her voice, for her to call him out on the lie, but all she does is rest his arm on his knee and start sewing him up. She’s quiet now, while she works, but it’s not as uncomfortable a silence as he might have expected. She’s quick, efficient, and Jim can barely feel the sting as the needle goes in and out. He focuses instead on breathing, and on cataloging his various hurts, already thinking over how impaired he’s going to be over the next few weeks. It’s as much as he can handle right now. 

She wraps a proper bandage around his wrist once she’s done, and hands him the spare guard’s uniform blazer she’d had another doctor fetch for her. He’s careful as he slides off the examination table onto his feet, slipping the jacket on once he’s found his footing. It’s scratchy, and a little too big on him, but it’s dry, and he’s grateful for it, his pants, and even his socks still damp and clinging uncomfortably. 

“Thanks doc,” he says, shaking Whistler’s hand once she’s done tidying up. 

She smiles at him, squeezing his hand in return. She brings her other hand up to rest over his, shaking her head. 

“Thank _you_, Detective Gordon. I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t been here. You risked your life to save us. The patients as well.” Jim opens his mouth to say something, feeling strangely uncomfortable, but she doesn’t give him the chance. “I mean it. Thank you.” 

“Just doing my job.” 

Whistler smiles at him again, though this time there’s something sad behind it. 

“Take care of yourself, Detective.” 

The fire department arrives not long after, automatically alerted when Jim tripped the sprinklers, along with some of the guards, who had fled the asylum, but had stayed close. He fills them in on his way out, and they assure him they can handle things from there. Normally Jim would stay, maintain command of the situation, but he’s tired. A bone deep kind of tired. He can come back and take witness statements, go over the security footage, and write his report tomorrow, but right now, Jim just wants to go home. He feels worn down and raw, sensitive, like an exposed nerve, and he’s legitimately worried that the tiniest thing might set him off. He hurts, and he’s tired, and he just wants to lie down in his own bed. 

He does take a moment to call it all in using the radio in his car. He’s brief, curt even, letting them know that Crane is still at large, but that the asylum is secure, all inmates accounted for with zero casualties, and that the GCFD is on site along with Arkham security and medical staff. He’s pretty sure his voice isn’t as steady and neutral as he’d like when he mentions that they could use additional police support, but he’s somewhat beyond caring. Let them help or not. Jim’s done all he can tonight. News of Oswald’s ultimatum has bound to have spread to the other precincts by now and going by the reaction from his colleagues at Central, he’s doubtful anyone will be coming. But who knows, maybe someone will step up and do their job. Either way, it’s out of his hands. 

The drive back to his apartment is done mostly one-handed, his wrist still too sore, but the first thing he does upon getting through the front door is shuck his clothes and limp towards the shower. It’s something like a revelation, the way the hot water chases away the chill and helps marginally ease the various aches and pains. It’s a little awkward having to keep one arm out of the water, but it feels good to roll out his neck, close his eyes, and tip his face up into the spray, washing away the salt and the dirt. 

He stays there long enough for the water to start running cold, just standing there, water beating down on him, eyes closed or else staring at the ugly, patterned tiles. He does get out eventually, drying off and wrapping the towel around his waist as he bends down to open up the cupboard under the sink, deliberately avoiding looking anywhere near the fogged-up mirror. 

There are probably half a dozen half-full painkiller bottles in his bathroom vanity, left over from various stints in the hospital and trips to the ER. He could take something, really should if he actually wants to get any sleep tonight, but he hesitates, bottle in hand. Because after everything it would be easy, worryingly easy for him to take too many, to chase them with the bottle of Scotch he’s got stashed in the kitchen. To go to sleep and then just...not wake up. 

It’s so easy that Jim can see himself doing it. 

And he tells himself, body aching, wrist stinging, head pounding, that it’s because of Crane, because something might still be lingering inside his head. An echo of a sort. It wouldn’t be the first time. And if he ignores it, the way he did after Tetch, if he tells himself over and over, like he did then, that he’s fine, then he will be. 

But Jim doesn’t want to die, he doesn’t. He made that choice while lying on the dirty floor of a cell in Arkham, and if he can’t trust himself, can’t trust his own mind, can’t trust that he is stronger than Crane and those like him, then what else does he have? 

So, he opens the bottle, tips out two pills, and swallows them down with a mouthful of water from the tap. After tidying everything away he then moves into the bedroom, pulling out a fresh pair of pajama pants and one of his old t-shits from the academy to change into. He probably has around twenty minutes before the painkillers kick in proper, so he heads into the kitchen, not at all hungry, but thirsty enough to down two full glasses of water. 

Eyes and limbs starting to feel heavier, he finally crawls into bed, burrowing under the blankets. He finds that laying on his left takes pressure off his bruised right side, so he’s able to get comfortable enough before the painkillers start dulling it all. At some point, someone at the asylum had gotten in a lucky hit right where he’d taken kick from one of the men who’d ambushed him in the locker room. If he closes his eyes he can picture them, the four cops, all men he knew. He can hear his own grunts as each of the blows connected. 

He remembers their hands, their fists, their boots. He remembers clinging to the bench, eyes clenched against the pain, the dizziness, listening to the footsteps retreat. Wiping the blood off his face, staring down his own reflection under the harsh fluorescent lighting, seeing and feeling the bruises already blooming. He remembers Harvey brushing the whole thing off like it was nothing but a joke. 

Jim was, _is_, more angry at them than afraid, and he hasn’t personally seen any of them since they’d left him there on the floor, but there’s something about it all that sits like a lead weight in his stomach, that keeps him on edge. 

Because he was attacked in his own precinct, by men he should be able to trust, and he doesn’t know if they’re going to do it again. He doesn’t even know if they decided to do it on their own, of if they were perhaps instructed, or encouraged to do so by someone who wanted Jim put in his place. And Oswald sending people, goons or otherwise, to intimidate him, to _ hurt _ him, isn’t something he’s ever even thought about considering before, despite everything. But now he’s not so sure. He’s not sure what Oswald’s capable of anymore, not even when it comes to him. 

Jim ultimately has no idea who he should be watching out for more. The only thing he knows for certain is that the list of people he can trust to watch his back has grown alarmingly short. But it doesn’t matter. Because tomorrow Jim will get up. He’ll get dressed, hide the bruises and the cuts under his suit, and he’ll go to work. He’ll face down Oswald when he inevitably comes to threaten and humiliate him again, media team in tow. He’ll face down the colleagues he can no longer trust, the ones he no longer feels safe around. He’ll face down the worst Gotham has to offer, will arrest those he catches, regardless of what happens next. He’ll do his job. He’s not giving up. He’s not turning his back on the city. 

He’s not going to stop. 

(Not until it kills him.) 

Right now, though, all Jim wants to do is sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can also be found over here on [tumblr](http://countessrivers.tumblr.com/).


	4. Jim/Jerome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim Gordon/Jerome Valeska - Jerome uses Jim to get Bruce's attention (non-con, minor gore, Killing Joke allusions)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to the not so regularly scheduled porn. A few days ago I went to Killer_Rabbit_of_Caerbannog and said "What if...Gotham's Killing Joke allusion, but with Jim instead of Selina?" and she was like "yes, amazing, write it immediately" and so I did. 
> 
> I deliberately left the "when" of this fic vague - it could be set in season 4 after Jerome escapes Arkham, if his plan went slightly differently, or it could be later, in some kind of AU where he doesn't die. It doesn't *really* matter, but just know that there's no precise point this could have happened. Also, minor/alluded to Valeyne, but it doesn't have to be read as such.
> 
> And as always, check the tags.

It ultimately came down to a choice between Jim Gordon, Alfred Pennyworth, and Selina Kyle. Any one of them would have worked fine for what Jerome had in mind. The girlfriend was a classic, even if it was a little bit of a cliché, and he could have had loads of fun with the butler - the man even owed him in a way, having rudely escaped more than one attempt of Jerome’s on his life. In the end though, he went with Gordon. Gotham’s _Finest_. And Jerome will admit that the decision was based as much on the amount of personal satisfaction he was going to get out of it as it was on how much it was going to really piss Brucie off. 

And for someone who paints as many targets on his back as Jim Gordon does, it is almost embarrassingly easy to follow the man home. 

Jerome’s careful though, goes in disguise and keeps his distance, head peaking down around the corner as Jim unlocks his door and ducks inside. He gives no indication that he’s aware he’s being watched, and to Jerome, it’s basically an invitation. 

He still gives it roughly half an hour, crosses the street a few times, walks to the end of the block and back, sunglasses on and hat pulled low to hide his face, before taking up a position leaning against a wall across from the backside of the building. The spot lets him see the apartment’s windows, curtained though they may be, and the stairs leading down to the front door, meaning there’s no chance of Jim leaving without being spotted. Let him get settled. Let him relax, lower his guard. Maybe he’ll shower, then answer the door only half dressed. That would certainly be something. The image of Jim Gordon all vulnerable and half-naked and caught unawares has his cock twitching in his pants already, and Jerome has to stop himself from mentally rushing ahead to what he’s got planned for after Jim opens the door, lest things get uncomfortable too soon. 

When he eventually gets bored of waiting, he heads back around the front, whistling as he goes. He tips his hat and smiles, all teeth, at a woman he meets coming up the steps, and she presses back against the handrail as far as possible to let him pass before scurrying away. 

He’d barely even shown her his face. 

Upon reaching Jim’s apartment, Jerome pulls out his phone, snapping a picture of the door and as much as the façade as he can fit, which will hopefully increase the likelihood of Bruce recognising where he is. He sends the photo, briefly debating whether to include a message as well, or even just a smiley face, before ultimately deciding to leave it at that. Bruce will come running regardless, and unless he is, for some reason, just around the corner, Jerome intends to be long gone by the time he gets here. 

Provided he doesn’t get carried away, which is a real possibility, but one that doesn’t bother Jerome too much. Pretty much every possible outcome of his plan today is a win-win. It would certainly be fun to actually _ see _ Bruce’s face when he finds Pseudo Father Figure Number Two in the state Jerome intends to leave him in, but who knows? Jerome is at the whim of the universe, and he’s more than happy to just go with the flow and see how things play out. Because unless things go very badly for him in the next thirty seconds or so, he’s unlikely to walk away disappointed. 

And chances are, no matter how quick he is, Jerome is going to have had his fill of fun and split long before Bruce makes it over. 

Switching his phone to vibrate and tucking it into his pocket, Jerome approaches the door. He pulls his gun out from where it’s been tucked into the back of his pants and flicks the safety off. Holding the gun behind him, head turned to the side so that his features are harder to make out should Jim decide to look through the peep hole, he reaches out and knocks ‘Shave and a Haircut’ out on the door. 

He hears shuffling from inside and has to bite his tongue to keep from grinning as he feels his phone start buzzing with a call at the exact same moment. He ignores it. 

Sorry, Brucie. Can’t come to the phone right now. Too busy shooting your loved ones. 

And there’s a chance this isn’t going to work. A chance that he’s going to be recognised, that Hero Cop Extraordinaire Jim Gordon is going to be smart, cautious, paranoid enough not to just open the door when a, seemingly, complete stranger knocks on it. But the universe must really, really like him, or else Jim must be off his game, because the man makes the mistake of fully opening the door, not a gun of his own in sight, and freezing, looking, Jerome would say, a little baffled, maybe by the fact that he’s standing so close, or maybe by his fashion forward combination of hat, sunglasses, scars, and very ugly shirt. Either way, the hesitation allows Jerome to step in, press the barrel of _ his _ gun right up against Jim’s stomach, and pull the trigger. 

The bang is loud, but they’re in a shitty part of town, in Gotham for that matter, so Jerome isn’t too worried about anyone coming to investigate. And even if someone did call the cops, they’re unlikely to get here any quicker than Bruce, meaning for now, it’s just the two of them. 

The shocked, almost confused look on Jim’s face is priceless. The way his breath is punched out of him as his body jerks. He sways a little on the spot, and Jerome quickly shoves him back so that when he collapses to the floor, he does so inside the apartment, rather than in the doorway. The fall seems to startle Jim back to awareness, a cry ripped, unwillingly he’s sure, out of him, anger then mixing with dawning horror clear across his face as he realises who’s standing over him. 

Jerome grins as he kicks the door shut behind him, flipping off his hat and tossing it blindly to the side. He gives himself a moment to really savour the sight in front of him, getting a proper look as he slides the glasses off too. Jim had fallen on his back, now using one arm trying to prop himself up with the other wrapped tightly around his middle. He unfortunately hadn’t answered the door half-naked, but he is dressed down in nothing but a pair of sweatpants and a tee-shirt with a faded GCPD crest printed on the sleeve, hair flopping down over his face. It’s a nice picture, made even nicer by the blood that’s steadily leaking over the hand he has pressed against the hole in his stomach. 

“Jerome,” he snarls, nowhere near as tough and forceful as he’d probably like, the bared teeth doing little to distract from the obvious pain Jerome can see tight around his pretty blue eyes. 

“Jimbo,” he replies, just as seriously, before turning faux apologetic. “Sorry for stopping by unannounced, probably should have called ahead. I guess I got tired of waiting for you to finally have me over.” Jim opens his mouth to retort, but whatever he was planning to say stutters off into something more like a groan when Jerome kicks him. “Decided I should just take the initiative and invite myself.” 

Jim grits his teeth, the arm holding him up visibly shaking as his eyes dart from Jerome’s face down to the gun still in his hand, around the room, and back. He might be looking for an escape route, or he might just be worried about Jerome shooting him again. Not much he can do about either and there’s really no way he’s going anywhere. Jerome decides to make sure of it, just in case, by dropping down to straddle Jim’s hips. Jim tries bucking up, but it’s barely anything for Jerome to hold him in place, weight settling and hands pushing his shoulders into the floor. 

Jim keeps fighting though, trying to twist underneath him as his free hand scratches at his arm. He only stills when Jerome taps the end of the gun against his collarbone. 

“The more you move, the quicker you’ll bleed out.” 

Jim glares up at him, but Jerome notices the way he presses his arm harder against his stomach, and the way he can’t quite manage to mask the pained flinch that follows. 

“What do you want?” 

Jerome sits up, releasing Jim’s shoulders but pressing the barrel of the gun harder against his neck. 

“Lots of things. But from you specifically, just a few.” He drags a hand down Jim’s chest, pulling at the shirt so that it stretches out the collar. “I mainly want you to deliver a message for me.” 

Jim doesn’t even bother asking who the message is for, and seemingly ignores both the hand and the gun entirely. 

“You’re not getting anywhere near him,” he says, eyes narrowing even further, and the clear rage that Jerome can see pushing through leaves him feeling a little giddy. Shame it’s not that kind of playtime. 

The man hits hard. 

“I’d recommend focusing a bit more of that worry on yourself right now.” 

His phone has been vibrating against his leg on and off since the moment he knocked on the door, but it doesn’t start up again after the third time it rings out. Instead, a phone rings from somewhere in the direction of the bedroom, and Jerome grins as Jim jerks underneath him at the sound. 

“I wonder who that could be?” 

Jim just glares at him some more. 

“Could be important. Want me to get it for you?” 

He doesn’t make a move to stand up though. He could, is actually dying to hear Bruce’s voice, but he thinks that if he picked up the phone and answered he’d be tempted to start laying into Jim, start trying to make him scream loud enough that Bruce could hear him on the other end of the line. 

And there’s nothing wrong with that in theory, but it’s not what he wants right now. He wants Bruce thinking and imagining and torturing himself with worst-case scenarios. He wants it to be a surprise. 

So, he waits. Tosses the gun to the side and just sits there listening to the phone ring, staring down at Jim as the man tries to hide just how much he’s starting to shiver, the effects of the blood loss kicking in. He might even be going into shock. 

About twenty seconds after the house phone stops ringing, he hears what’s probably Jim’s mobile go off. He lets that ring too, slides his knees back instead so that he can plant his hands either side of Jim’s head and lean down, hovering over him rather than sitting. Jerome can just picture the anger, the panic, the _fe__ar_ on Bruce’s face each time the phone ring out without an answer. All the horrible things he must be imagining. It has him rolling his hips down, grinding his already stiff cock against Jim, and the way the man holds his body so deliberately still at the movement, jaw noticeably clenched, has him doing it again. 

The room’s quiet when the phone eventually stops, nothing but the muted sound of the traffic outside coupled with Jim’s increasingly shaky breaths. He’s growing paler by the moment, but he still manages a hiss and a flinch when Jerome brings a hand to his chest and pinches a nipple. He pulls at it through his shirt, rubbing his thumb over the bud and flicking it with his nail, enjoying the disgust on Jim’s face as he deliberately turns his head away. He keeps toying, relishing every little wince that slips through, and when he does stop it’s only so he can grab Jim’s jaw, turn his head back, and hold him in place while he kisses him. 

He squeezes hard enough that Jim is forced to open his mouth, and Jerome doesn’t waste any time before shoving his tongue in. He ignores the affronted noise Jim makes, focusing instead on getting closer, licking into Jim’s mouth. Moving and pressing his tongue against his, against his teeth, the inside of his mouth. It’s sloppy, and dirty, and almost exactly the way Jerome has fantasized about for years, right down to the copious amounts of blood. It takes a while, though Jerome is in no hurry to stop, but Jim eventually rouses himself into biting back. The teeth clamping down on his tongue hurt like hell, but Jerome just grins into the kiss until they both taste blood. It’s only once Jim himself lets go, recoiling, that Jerome backs off. Sitting back up on his knees he slaps Jim hard across the face, and while he lays there dazed, Jerome forcibly pulls his arm away from his body and digs his fingers into the bullet hole. 

Jim screams, lashing out weakly, but Jerome just pins both hands down under his knees before shoving his fingers in further. He can’t hear the wet squelch they must make over the sound of Jim’s howls, but he can feel it. The way Jim’s insides pulse around his fingers. He can feel how hot it is, how warm and wet and sticky the blood is, more and more of it spilling out with each beat of Jim’s heart. 

“It’s rude to bite without asking beforehand, Jim,” he says, twisting his fingers a little more. “Are you going to behave?” 

Jim just lays beneath him, head tipped back and eyes squeezed shut, stomach muscles clenching and twitching as his screams peter off into a series of shuddering breaths. 

“I’ll take that as a yes.” 

He pulls his fingers out of the wound none too gently and reaches out to smear the blood dripping off them across Jim’s mouth, painting a red slash of a smile on his face, a mirror to the frown he’d drawn on Bruce’s during their little trip to the circus. The rest of the blood he licks off, twisting his hand to chase where it’s run down his wrist. 

Jim clearly had had time to shower before Jerome arrived. His hair is damp, yet still wonderfully soft when he runs a hand through it. He’s not so clean now, but he still smells good when Jerome leans down and presses his nose against his neck, inhaling deeply. Jim tries to pull away, movements noticeably sluggish now, but Jerome, hand in his hair, holds him in place. 

“Why?” Jim asks, voice raspy, but still clear. 

Jerome pauses, eyeing Jim carefully before going back to running his nose, and then his teeth, up and down the column of his throat. 

“Why did I shoot you? Why am I touching you?” He shifts, moving his hands between their bodies and taking hold of the hem of Jim’s shirt. “I don’t know.” He pulls, tearing the shirt, keeps tearing all the way up the middle until it’s hanging in scraps off Jim’s shoulders. “Maybe it’s because you’re a cop who arrested me. Twice. Maybe because you literally punched my face off. Maybe because you have a very pretty face, Jim, and for whatever reason, that kinda’ makes me want to hurt you.” 

He nudges Jim’s head to the side in order to get a better angle, his fingers skipping over the bullet hole and dancing up Jim’s now bared chest as he does so. He worries at the skin with his teeth and his tongue, sucking, raising a vivid bruise and enjoying the way he can feel Jim’s fingers, his hands no longer pinned, twitching against his legs. 

“Or maybe,” he says, sitting up and pressing the heel of his hand against his cock as he admires the state of the man below him. “Because it’s _really _going to upset Bruce.” 

Jim’s denial is soft, but he still forces his eyes open, his face twisting in anger, righteously defensive, and Jerome can practically smell the protectiveness wafting off him. He has to laugh, doubles over with it in fact, cackling into Jim’s chest, and when he looks up and sees the return of the disgust, the distaste, it sets him off again. 

He eventually calms down, straightening up and making a show of wiping away a non-existent tear. “You’re all so predictable, the lot of you. Always so easily manipulated, always so ready to throw yourselves in front of each other like a human shield.” 

His hand hovers over the still-bleeding hole in Jim’s stomach, fingers lightly tracing the surrounding skin. He openly strokes his cock through his pants with the other, and there’s no way Jim misses how hard he is, if he hadn’t already felt it pressing against him. 

“You leave your soft parts so open, so vulnerable. Practically begging someone to come along and shove something sharp in there.” 

“You’re mad.” The way Jim says it is almost funny, tinged with confusion, like he genuinely doesn’t understand. Like he doesn’t surround himself with madness and mad men twenty-four seven. Like he isn’t half-way off the deep end himself. 

Instead of laughing though, Jerome presses his fingers harder into Jim’s stomach, enjoying the groan it produces. 

“You’re being rude again, Jim.” 

“Go to hell.” 

“I’m not entirely sure that’s where I was, but if so? No thanks. Tried it, wasn’t a fan. Far too boring. There weren’t even any handsome cops for me to torture there.” He shuffles back so that he’s sitting on Jim’s thighs, rather than his hips, and pauses. “I’m not too heavy for you, am I? I know I’ve been bulking up a bit, but I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable. Or maybe...” He digs his thumbs into the tops of Jim’s thighs, searching his face for a reaction. “Can you feel anything, Jim? Or did I actually manage to sever your spinal cord?” 

“Fuck you.” 

Which...isn’t an answer, but Jim’s face gives away nothing and it doesn’t _r__eally_ matter. He’d shot him in the stomach on purpose, so there’s a damn good chance he has at least partially paralysed him, which is hilarious to think about, and something he certainly will be thinking about, in detail, later. But for now, it makes little difference either way. 

“Not sure if you’re up to it, but I admire your confidence. I like that in a man.” 

Jerome reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, opening up the camera and pointing it between them. 

“Smile for the camera, handsome.” 

He has to lean back and hold the phone up high to get everything in, but he manages to capture all of it, from Jim’s messy hair, drooping eyes, and pale, blood-smeared face down to the ragged, bleeding hole in his stomach. Sticking his fingers into the bullet hole doesn’t elicit much more than a moan now, but he takes his time recording it anyway, taking multiple shots of both the wound itself, and his fingers inside it. He then smears his bloody hand up and across Jim’s chest, painting it red. 

Jerome takes photo after photo, keeping up a one-sided conversation about how good Jim looks right now, about how much Bruce is going to enjoy the pictures as he does so. He twists a hand in Jim’s hair, pulling his head back to bare his neck so he can take a photo of the bruise he sucked into the skin, making sure to get his face in too. He takes a photo of the initials he paints over Jim’s heart with the blood that’s pooling beneath him, and another of his fingers pinching a nipple. 

He takes a lot of Jim’s face, of the bloody smile too. He shoves his fingers into his mouth, as far back as he can, and then captures the way Jim’s lips look stretched around his hand. His eyes are closed in most of them, but there are a few where they’re at least half open, where Jerome can see pretty rings of blue beginning to dim. 

Because Jim appears to be slipping away. He’s aware that someone’s touching him, will react when Jerome speaks, or when he hurts him, but it seems instinctual, his body reacting to sound, to pain, and even then, the reactions are weak and delayed. 

Jim’s dying, and the realisation has Jerome dropping the phone and fumbling with his pants to pull his cock out. He groans when he finally gets it free, having been hard basically since the moment he pulled the trigger. He closes his eyes and gives himself a few strokes, spreading the pre-cum leaking from the tip up and down his length, already knowing it’s not going to take much. 

He keeps stroking himself as he opens his eyes, reaching out his free hand to wrap around Jim’s throat. He doesn’t waste time, just immediately starts squeezing as hard as he can. Before long Jim’s choking, twitching, eyelids fluttering as he struggles for air, even on the verge of unconsciousness. Jerome lets him stay like that for a while, squeezing his cock harder with each stroke, before eventually letting go, allowing Jim a chance to breathe. 

It seems to have roused him a bit, and Jerome watches, hand still on his cock, as Jim rolls his head to the side, coughing and gasping for air. The coughing has Jim flinching as well, face twisting in pain as the movement fires up the still bleeding gunshot wound. 

And Jerome can’t help himself, lets his fingers crawl up Jim’s neck, over his jaw, and into his open mouth. He pushes them until they brush against the back of Jim’s throat and then he’s choking again. He eases up, stroking over Jim’s tongue, tracing his lips, before pressing them back in. 

Jerome finds himself moving closer, leaning down far enough that he’s practically laying on Jim, their faces just inches apart. He has to let go of his cock to brace himself but only because he doesn’t want to miss a thing. He wants to see every little twitch, every gasp. He wants to see his fingers fucking in and out of Jim’s mouth up close. He wants to memorise it all, knowing that it’s a sight he will absolutely be coming back to again and again. 

“Bruce is going to be _devastated _when he finds you,” Jerome sighs into Jim’s ear as he rolls his hips down, fucking himself against the warm, solid body beneath him. “Furious too. Do you think he’ll cry?” He slips his fingers from Jim’s slack mouth, trailing them down his chest, pausing briefly to circle them around a nipple before continuing down to grab at his waist. 

“I bet he does.”

_That _manages to get a tear, and Jerome doesn’t hesitate to lick it up, swiping his tongue over Jim’s cheek. He can’t hold back his smile, though it’s lost on Jim and his closed eyes. 

“Poor thing,” he laughs, and he could be talking about either of them. 

He keeps moving his hips, fingers digging into Jim’s side, and eventually he just gives in and starts properly rutting against him. He sinks his teeth into Jim’s shoulder as he thrusts his cock against his stomach, sliding through the blood, his shaft every now and again catching on the edge of the bullet hole. The hole Jerome put in him. He closes his eyes and imagines fucking Jim for real. Imagines making Jim choke on his cock the way he’d choked on his fingers. Imagines spreading his legs and fucking him there, filling him up. 

If Jerome wanted to, there’d be nothing Jim could do to stop him. 

He wishes he had the time. 

Thoughts of Jim had taken up more than their fair share of Jerome’s alone time in Arkham. Both of his stints in the nut house, for that matter, and it had been nice the second time around to have people who shared his brand of appreciation for the man. Tetch in particular had always been fun to bounce ideas off, but even little Ozzy, as much of a disappointment as he’d been on the whole, had been, and likely still is, twisted up about Jim Gordon in a way that was endlessly entertaining to pick at. He still regrets not getting to spend enough time with Barbara Kean before they were broken out. The woman’s a particular kind of crazy and even back then, Jerome knew obsession when he saw it. Oh, the things they could have talked about. 

And he’s thought about fucking Jim Gordon, of doing something like this for _years_. Passing thoughts of getting on his knees for the handsome detective investigating his bitch of a mother’s murder. Thoughts of fucking him, and then maybe killing him, the way he’d killed Lila. Nothing too serious – he thought those things about plenty of people – but they’d stuck around after the man arrested him, chucked him in the loony bin. And Jerome learned a lot in Arkham, learned even more from that stuck-up, backstabbing traitor Galavan. Learned a lot about Jim, in fact. Galavan had told him all about him, all the things that made him tick. He’d coached Jerome through how to get his attention, how to hurt him, and he’d promised, on the eve of their attack on the GCPD that he’d have his chance to kill Jim another day. 

The son of a bitch had been lying of course, but, well, now who’s laughing? 

And he’d had a lot to think about during his second stay at Gotham’s Home for Wayward Lunatics. Mostly about Bruce, and his brother, but Jim kept popping up too. Jerome would lay awake, alone in his cot and touch himself to all the ways he fantasized about hurting them, toying with them. Wrote down most of them, for posterity’s sake. He’d often thought about what it would be like to have Jim Gordon underneath him, in any kind of way. Thought about how he’d use the height and weight he has over Jim to overpower him, hold him down, a hand around the back of his neck maybe, pushing his face into the floor. Jerome _l__ikes _that he’s bigger than Jim, and he likes being given a chance to abuse that fact. 

For example, he doesn’t currently need to hold Jim down, but the contrast is still most certainly there. When Jerome leans over him the way he is, he covers him completely, and if Jim wasn’t on death’s door, in the process of bleeding out, Jerome would bet he’d still be hard pressed to push him off. 

And there’s a part of him that’s a little grateful to Galavan, despite the back, or rather, neck-stabbing. He’d taught him a lot, opened his eyes to so many things, and it had been Galavan who had first clued him in on just how close Bruce Wayne and Jim Gordon were. He probably would have picked up on it anyway, but having it pointed out, having Galavan explain how important it was to pick Bruce at the gala, how it was part of the plan to reel Jim in, made it that much more obvious that Jim was as protective of Brucie as the butler was. 

Jerome knows the Wayne story, everyone does, but Galavan had been the one to tell him Jim had been there that night, that baby Bruce had latched onto him, and the cop and had apparently latched right on back. Jerome’s kept up to date since then, and what’s clear is that after all these years, little has changed. It's so disgustingly sweet, little orphan Bruce building himself a new family out of his butler, his criminal of a girlfriend, a bleeding heart, white knight cop, and about half a dozen other hangers on. 

The sentimentality of it honestly makes him sick, but it does also provide him with a number of exceedingly fun ways to get Bruce’s attention. 

Bruce is older now than he was back in that hall of mirrors, but Jerome will often remember him like that, how beautiful he’d been. The blood and paint only highlighting the despair and the rage. The look in his eyes as he knelt above him, ready to kill because he thought someone had taken his family from him. 

And Jerome wants to see that again. He wants to push Bruce, push him and pull him right over that line. He wants Bruce to walk through the door of Jim Gordon’s apartment and see exactly what Jerome has done to the man he loves like a father. He wants Bruce to know who did it, he wants Bruce to know why he did it. 

(At least partially. Jerome has a multitude of reasons for showing up on Jim Gordon’s doorstep today, some of which have nothing to do with Bruce Wayne.) 

He wants Bruce to know and think about it and _feel_. 

And then he wants Bruce to come to him. 

Jerome comes to the thought of Bruce and all his rage and fear and heartbreak focused down into one beautifully sharp knife that he holds to Jerome’s throat, ready to slice. He spills all over Jim’s chest and stomach, his teeth buried so deep in his shoulder that he tastes hot, fresh blood on his tongue. He pets Jim’s waist as he comes down, running his hands up and down his sides as he licks at the bite, humming. 

When he eventually sits up, Jerome fumbles blindly for his phone, opening up the camera one more time so he can take a photo of the bite. He takes another of Jim’s body, capturing the streaks of cum layered over the blood. He then scrolls back through the rest of the photos and chooses three of his favourites – one of the first full body shots, one with his fingers in the bullet hole, and one of just Jim’s face, blood smeared across his mouth and half-lidded eyes staring unseeingly off to the side – which he then sends straight to Bruce. 

“Well,” he says, tucking his phone away and rolling out his neck. “That was nice. And you were great. Honestly, you were. And so, I do hate to run out right away but, places to be. You know how it is?” 

Jim doesn’t respond, looks very much dead in fact, so just to be sure, Jerome presses his fingers against his neck, feeling for a pulse. He manages to find one. It’s slow, but it’s there, so Jerome slaps Jim across the face, once, twice, and on the third he gets a groan. 

“There we go. Still in there, Jimbo?” Jim’s eyes so flutter open, though it looks like it’s a struggle for him to keep them that way. “Excellent. Now, like I said, I have to bounce, but if you’re still conscious by the time Bruce gets here, please make sure you give him my love, and let him know I hope to catch up soon. If you’re not conscious...well I’m sure he’ll get the idea.” 

Jerome has no clue how much Jim is registering right now, but it’s not like he actually expects him to verbally deliver the message. Swiping his fingers across Jim’s stomach he reaches out to repaint the smile on his face. Leaning down, he presses one last kiss to his mouth, really just a press of lips more than anything. 

“Bye, Jim,” he says, before pulling back and climbing to his feet, hands on Jim’s chest to help himself up. He tucks his cock away and flattens down his shirt, taking a moment to debate whether or not to track down the gun he thinks has ended up under the sideboard. He decides to leave it. He has plenty of guns, and it’s not like he’s worried about the cops finding prints or anything. He has no intention of hiding that he’s the one who did it. He does pause to take one last photo of Jim, then blows a kiss over his shoulder on his way out the door. 

As he shuts the front door behind him, licking the taste of both of them off his lips, Jerome can’t help but hope Jim does survive long enough for Bruce to get here. The issue is, he’s not sure whether he’d rather he then dies in front of Bruce, or that he manages to make it to the hospital. Any scenario is going to hurt Bruce, and the man _is _a long standing, albeit entertaining, thorn in his side, but Jim living, potentially paralysed or not, means a whole future full of chances to torment him some more. 

And if he does make it to a hospital, he’s still going to be bedridden, _helpless_, for a good long while. Assuming Bruce doesn’t immediately kill him, or have him chucked back in Arkham, Jerome might just have to pay Jim a follow-up visit, see how he’s doing. 

He’ll have to remember to bring flowers. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can also be found over here on [tumblr](http://countessrivers.tumblr.com/).


	5. Jim/Oswald 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 5: Jim Gordon/Oswald Cobblepot - Post 4x02, Oswald invites Jim to the Iceberg Lounge to talk about Jim's continued obstinacy. It escalates from there (drugging, non-con)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all know what to expect by now. Though extra warning for some mild gaslighting at the end.

“Do you really expect people to buy it?” 

The shuffle of uneven steps and the click of a cane on the floor pause behind him. 

“Buy what?” Oswald says as Jim turns to face him. 

“The tale about Nygma being sick?” He gestures to the block of ice behind him. “That he_ asked _you to freeze him and then stick him up in the middle of your club like the world’s creepiest centrepiece?” 

Oswald shrugs. 

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Jim. It’s the truth. All I’ve done is honour the wishes of a dear friend as best I can. And you know Ed always liked to be the centre of attention.” 

He’s barely trying and it’s infuriating, the smile plastered across his face almost goading. They both know he’s lying, and they both know that Jim knows that. They also both know that there’s nothing Jim can do about it. 

Yet. 

It’s Oswald who breaks first though, sighing and rolling his eyes towards the roof. 

“I didn’t ask you here to talk about Ed.” He gestures to the cushioned bench that ran around the length of the plinth. “Please, have a seat.” 

Jim is tempted to decline, just to be contrary, but he actually is curious as to why Oswald asked him to the club, and why the media crew that was so often seen trailing him appeared absent for once. He takes the offered seat, but perches on the edge, hyper aware of the unsettling display behind him. 

Oswald nods as he does so, then turns and heads behind the bar 

“Why did you then?” 

“I wanted to discuss us. The licenses.” He bends down and starts rummaging under the counter. “Drink?” 

“Unless the next words out of your mouth are ‘I’m stopping the licenses immediately’, I’m not particularly interested in what you have to say. And no, thank you.” 

Oswald’s sigh is audible over the clink of the ice-filled glasses he sets down on the bar top 

“Why not? You’re off duty. One little drink won’t hurt.” Picking up a bottle from the display behind him, Oswald fills both glasses with a healthy measure of amber liquid. “And obviously I’m not stopping the licenses.” 

“Then what’s there to talk about?” Jim really should just get up and leave, but he’s cautiously wary. Oswald didn’t invite him to the club to rehash things they both already know, and if he wanted to issue another ultimatum then he’d do it in public, cameras and reporters in tow. But for whatever reason, he wanted to meet privately, on his own turf, and Jim needs to know why. 

“You.” Oswald rounds the bar, leaving his cane so he can carry the glasses. “And your options.” 

Despite declining the drink, Jim finds himself taking it when Oswald holds it out to him. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

He’s surprised when Oswald sits down on the bench, rather than remain standing over him. He’s just on the edge of too close, but far enough away that there’s some plausible deniability. He’s still too close for Jim’s liking, his immediate presence starting an itch beneath his skin, same as it always does. 

“It means,” Oswald takes a sip of his drink, and Jim finds himself doing the same. “You seem to be under the illusion that you have even the slightest bit of power with which to stand against me, which is entirely incorrect, and the sooner you are disabused of that notion, the better off we’ll all be.” 

Jim would really like to smash the glass in his hand over Oswald head, but it would be, he has to admit, a waste of excellent whiskey. 

“You would say that, wouldn’t you?” he says, instead of telling Oswald exactly where he could shove his cane. And his licenses. 

Oswald shakes his head, leaning in. 

“I mean it, Jim, and I say this with genuine concern. You are powerless. You have nothing, no one, and the more you fight, the more you try and push back against me, the more painful it’s going to be for you.” 

Jim downs the rest of his drink in one go, enjoying the burn as it settles in his stomach. Oswald watches him as he does, something behind his eyes that Jim can’t parse, though he flinches when Jim slams the glass down on the plinth a bit too hard, inches from Ed’s possibly frozen corpse. 

“Your threats are usually less vague, Oswald.” 

“I’m not threatening you, Jim.” The ‘not yet’ hangs in the air between them. “I’m offering you advice. Stop fighting me. Stop fighting the licenses. You won’t win, you _ca__n’t_. I have the mayor , the D.A., the police, all of them behind me. The people of Gotham look to _me_.” 

“Not the ones you’re terrorising. The ones you’re getting rich off of.” Oswald scoffs, and it has Jim’s temper flaring enough to have him reaching out and grabbing hold of his jacket, hands fisting the no doubt expensive fabric. “Dress up your threats all you like, hide behind the mayor and the commissioner, it doesn’t matter. As long as you’re breaking the law, as long as innocent people are being hurt, I’m not going to stop.” 

“Good intentions will only get you so far.” Oswald doesn’t try and pull out of his grip. If anything, he leans into it, leans further into Jim’s space. “Didn’t Crane and Arkham teach you that lesson? You had one job, after all. One task; catch Jonathan Crane, and you failed at it. As I knew you would. As everyone knew you would.” 

There’s a small bandage on the inside of Jim’s wrist, hidden by his shirt cuffs. It hadn’t required more than that, but the cut beneath it still stings as he clenches his fists, twisting up more fabric between his fingers. 

“You don’t give a damn about what Crane does beyond your bruised ego, _Penguin_.” Jim spits the moniker. “It was never about protecting people. It was about fear-mongering. It was about compensating for your cracked façade. You were so afraid that Gotham would see you for what you really are that you tried to distract them with some flashy, public shamming.” 

“I was hardly wrong though, was I? The GCPD failed to catch Crane. It failed to do its job. Like it always fails.” 

“And you could have done better? What would you have done then, Oswald? Sent your men to Arkham with orders to gun down the inmates to get to Crane? Would you have told them to kill him too, once they had him? I saved dozens of lives, staff and inmates alike, and I’ll catch Crane too, I can promise you that.” 

Oswald looks down at where Jim’s hands are still gripping his jacket, the corner of his mouth jerking up. 

“An admirable feat, I will admit,” he says, tapping his fingers against the glass in his hand as his eyes trail back up to Jim’s face. “But you said it yourself, you did it alone. You went to Arkham alone, without a single officer to accompany you, not even Bullock. It was a police matter, after all, so I have to wonder why, if it wasn’t, as you would say, incompetence.” He leans in then, close enough that Jim can feel his breath on his cheek. “What was it, Jim? Are they so afraid of me, or do they just hate you that much?” 

Jim’s retort catches in his throat, because it’s nothing Jim hasn’t thought himself in the two days since the Arkham incident. Since he was ambushed in the locker room by men he thought he could trust. 

Why? Why did every single one of them choose to turn their backs on the city when it needed them? On him? 

“How long do you think you’ll last, Jim, when your colleagues, when the entire GCPD no longer has you back? How many situations will you have to go into alone? How long can you last when backup stops coming?” 

Jim shoves him away, breathing harshly through his nose as he stares out the window, listening to Oswald straighten himself up beside him. 

“I don’t need them. I’ll take you down myself.” 

Oswald doesn’t need to make a sound for Jim to pick up on his amused disbelief. And he’s right, because it’s been rattling around in his head since he’d let Harvey drag him to the bar. 

He _can’t _do it alone. He needs an army. 

“You’ll try, and I’m sure you’ll put in a good effort, but you won’t win. You can’t. So, do us both a favour and stop trying.” There’s a clink and when Jim turns to look, he sees Oswald placing his now empty glass next to his. “I wouldn’t even ask you to publicly endorse me or the licenses, because I know that’s probably too much to ask,” he continues, hints of his temper starting to creep into his tone. “Just stop fighting me. Focus on other things, take a holiday, I don’t care. Just keep your head down and your mouth shut and let_ me_ take care of the city.” 

Jim feels the urge to laugh as he stands, beyond done. 

“Go to hell, Oswald.” 

“I meant it,” Oswald cuts in before Jim can turn and leave. “How long do you think you’ll last?” He climbs to his feet, stepping forward to push back into Jim’s space. “I own this city, and everyone in it will dance to whatever tune I sing. Even Bullock, your partner, your captain. They’re mine, Jim. Every single one of them is mine.” 

“Not me,” Jim says, stomach turning. 

Because that’s the crux of it, that’s why Jim’s here. Oswald can’t stand the fact that Jim’s not playing ball, can’t stand that Jim isn’t kowtowing like everyone else. It’s not enough that he’s threatening or bribing everyone from the uniformed officers all the way up to the commissioner. It’s not enough that he has the mayor on board. He has to have Jim too. He has to make an example of Jim. That’s what the ambushes and the public ultimatums have been. That’s what this is. Just another attempt to get Jim under his thumb. 

Oswald arches his eyebrows, letting loose a laugh. 

“Well, you say that...” 

Jim takes a step back, and as he does, wonders if the feeling in his stomach is something other than disgust, because his head starts spinning so much so that he has to grab at the back of the bench for support. Oswald ignores it, just follows Jim’s retreat so that they’re still _too close_. 

“What choice do you really have? Just give up. Surrender.” 

The lightheadedness doesn’t pass, just gets worse, his hearing starting to fade in and out. 

“Never,” he grits out, forcing himself to stare straight at the blur he knows is Oswald. “You really want to stop me? You’ll have to-” 

“Kill you? I’d rather not. That’s really the last of last resorts.” 

Jim’s having trouble feeling his extremities, and it’s a struggle to stay standing. His head spins even when he closes his eyes, and it _might_ be because he hasn’t been sleeping well lately and that he skipped lunch, or... 

A hand on his arm nudges him back, and guides him down when his legs give out. 

“You never know when to quit, do you Jim?” 

* 

Jim is aware of hands on him, a presence behind him. His body feels heavy, distant, and it takes a handful of long moments to work out that he’s on his knees, bent over something with his head pillowed in his arms. 

He feels cold, and he wants to look, to work out why, but it’s too much to lift his head. His mouth feels dry, and there’s something rocking against him, pushing him forward again and again. 

No, not against him. 

“-really do bring this on yourself.” 

Oswald’s - _Oswald’s _\- hands slide under his shirt, running up and down his sides as he fucks into him. Jim can feel it, can feel the cock sliding in and out. Too easily, which means that Oswald has been at this for a while. It means that he opened him up. Jim can’t remember. Can only imagine what it felt like to have those long fingers inside him, opening him up, stretching him, getting him ready for- 

Jim’s been drugged. His head feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton, everything registering a second after it actually happens, and Oswald’s- Oswald is- Jim wants to push him off, but he can’t move. The most he can manage is rolling his head to the side, and when he does, he can see just past his arms, the two empty glasses. 

It had to have been something on the glass. Or maybe in the ice. Oswald had poured from the same bottle after all, Jim had watched him. 

He must make some kind of noise because a warm weight curves over his back, lips at his ear shushing him softly. He reaches out blindly, then jerks back as his fingers brush against something cold. 

A laugh this time, and a gloved hand covering his, picking it up and pressing it against the ice. Oswald holds it there long enough for it to burn, using the leverage to fuck into him harder. He eventually lets go, allowing Jim to pull his hand back, his own dropping down to squeeze at his hip. It might have been the pain of his stinging hand cutting through, or whatever it was Oswald had given him lifting, but Jim feels the tiniest bit more aware. 

There’s still nowhere for him to go though, the cushioned bench at his front, Oswald at his back, and Jim isn’t sure he wouldn’t rather go back to unconsciousness. He’s apparently helpless either way. 

Oswald will do as he pleases. 

As if reading his thoughts, Oswald gradually slows his movements, pausing as he sheathes himself inside him, hips pressed against his ass. He runs his hands over his back instead, up and down his thighs, across his stomach, and Jim can’t escape, can’t help but be conscious of not just Oswald’s hands, but his cock as well. He can feel it, inside of him, filling him up. Fingers brush across his chest, circle his nipples, and Jim gasps when they pinch. He clenches down around the cock inside of him, and Oswald moans in response. 

“You can be so good when you want to be, Jim,” Oswald whispers in his ear, with just a touch of breathlessness. “If only it wasn’t such a rare occurrence.” 

He starts moving again, thrusts slow, but deep, and steady. 

“One day I’m going to get tired of giving you second chances.” He fists a hand in his hair and yanks his head up and back at a painful angle. It leaves Jim staring at Ed, blurred behind ice. He can see now, in a way he didn’t really before, the fear and the shock quite literally frozen on his face. 

“So be careful,” Oswald hisses. “I forgive you many things, but keep pushing and I’ll put you right up there next to Ed.” 

Jim wonders distantly if Ed’s still alive in there. 

“Although,” Oswald goes on, his tone shifting into something more even, although Jim can still hear the way his breathing is speeding up. “People aren’t likely to believe that you asked for it. I would have to keep you somewhere more private.” 

Jim shudders at the images that puts in his head. He’s noticed, couldn’t possibly _ not _ notice the way Oswald has looked at him from the moment they met. The avarice, the hunger he hadn’t been able to hide, that’s taken on a darker, sharper edge as the years have gone by. But even then, Jim never would have thought Oswald capable of something like this. To take an enemy – because he knows enough to know Ed had become that, even if he didn’t know the whole story – and display him like a trophy, so openly, so blatantly. 

To be kept like that, even if it wasn’t in the middle of a nightclub. 

Jim would rather be dead. 

“Then again, Victor’s offered often enough to take you in hand for me. Educate you, the way he did Butch once. Bring you to heel. I have no doubt you’d be a tougher nut to crack than Gilzien was, but it is a rather appealing idea, I must admit. I think Victor’s itching to do it.” 

Jim manages to get his tongue working enough to push out the refusal that’s been trying to claw its way out since he became aware of where he was, but Oswald just shushes him again, and lets his head drop back down onto his arms. 

“Don’t worry. I’ve told him no. For the most part, I rather like you as you are. Fire and stubbornness and attitude and all. But like I said, Jim, keep misbehaving...” 

He starts to speed up again, losing the careful rhythm from earlier, but making up for it with sheer force, each thrust sending a jolt up Jim’s spine. Fingers dig into his cheeks, pulling them apart, and Jim feels like his whole body is pressed against the ice, knowing that Oswald is looking down, watching as he slides into him, seeing everything. A single finger traces lightly around his stretched rim as Oswald pulls half-way out, and Jim shivers at the touch, all kinds of sounds slipping out, even after the finger and the hands disappear. 

His hearing is still doing funny things, but he can hear Oswald just fine, along with the relentless slap of skin against skin. Eventually Oswald grabs at the tie still hanging from his neck, winding it around his hand and tugging until it’s twisted to the back, like a leash he could use to pull Jim up. 

Which he does a moment later. 

“You just keep pushing.” Oswald jerks on the tie again, forcing Jim up into an arch, the band digging into his throat. “You won’t kneel, won’t toe the line, won’t obey like everybody else. It’s as if you’re _trying_ to force my hand.” 

Jim doesn’t have the strength to claw at the tie, can’t even raise his arms that high, though he tries. All he can do is grope weakly at the smooth, polished surface of the plinth, fingers grazing the ice, his eyes heavy, but drawn inescapably back to Ed again and again. 

“Is that it?” Oswald asks as he pulls Jim back onto his cock. “Do you _w__ant _me to make you bend, Jim? Do you want me to _break_ you? Because I will.” 

“Stop,” Jim manages to gasp, even as it becomes harder and harder to draw in breath, the tie around his neck tightening with every pull. 

Oswald ignores him, keeps fucking him, keeps pulling him back until it hurts. Until he can’t breathe. 

He can’t breathe. 

“I need you to understand, it doesn’t matter what you want. You’re powerless here, just like you are out there. I decide what the law is. I decide who gets a license, who makes money, and who goes to jail. I decide what happens to Gotham, Jim. And I decide what happens to you.” 

His vision’s going dark. There’s a roaring in his ears, it’s a struggle to keep his eyes open. He can’t breathe, and he can still feel Oswald fucking him. Can still feel his cock inside him. It won’t stop, and Jim can’t- He can’t- 

“It’s almost a shame you’re not going to remember this. I can only hope _something_ sticks.” 

* 

The morning sun burns, and Jim groans as he buries his head under the blanket, cursing himself for forgetting to close the blinds before bed the night before. He tries anyway, eyes squeezed shut, but it’s no use. He’s awake. 

And his head is pounding. 

Rolling over and sitting up requires a brief pause as he sits on the edge of the bed, trying not to vomit through sheer force of will. He manages it, but there’s an awful taste in his mouth that suggests he may have already. He can’t remember though. 

Actually, he can’t remember getting home at all. 

The last thing he remembers for certain is Oswald. The club. He’d been invited, that much he’s sure of, and he’d had a drink. Just the one, which wouldn’t account for what feels like one of his worse hangovers, but he also does vaguely remember telling Oswald to go to hell, so it’s not hard to imagine himself subsequently storming out, coming home, getting drunk and then collapsing into bed. 

His theory is bolstered by the empty scotch bottle sitting on the bedside table. 

And Jim feels a strange guilt, looking down at the empty bottle as he carefully makes his way to the kitchen to drop it in the recycling. He’s trying not to slip back into bad habits. Back to where he was after leaving the GCPD and picking up work as a bounty hunter. There are nights from that time he doesn’t fully remember, and others where he remembers just enough to feel sick. Ashamed. Dirty. 

He’d done a lot of things back then that he wasn’t exactly proud of. Things he dreads coming to light, that at the time he’d either have to be drunk to get through or drunk to deal with after the fact. And that was on top of his general, ongoing desire to drown the world out. 

And Jim thought he’d been doing better, but maybe he’s not as okay as he thought, if he’s once again drinking enough to blackout. He might be able to excuse it as an outlier, one night of binging brought on by stress and the Arkham incident and a few too many encounters with Oswald, all within a single week, but still, it doesn’t sit well, and he makes a promise to himself to avoid overindulging again. 

He hadn’t fallen asleep in his suit at least. Had clearly had the presence of mind to strip down to his singlet and underwear. He spots his shoes by the door and his jacket laying over the back of the lounge, the rest of it likely in a pile beside the bed. Jim decides he’ll tidy it all up later. It’s his day off, the first of three as a matter of fact, and his throbbing head isn’t inclining him towards doing the laundry. 

He’s not at all hungry, but he forces himself to drink a full glass of water. He goes slowly, wary of upsetting his stomach, but he feels a touch better once he’s done. He tops the glass up enough to swallow down a couple of mild painkillers to help with the headache, then heads to the bathroom. Jim’s still bruised and sore from the Arkham business, and from before that, the men who’d ambushed him in the locker room, but he feels worse today. Like the hurts and aches are all brand new. It’s likely just the hangover talking, but he’s grateful for the hot water that beats down over his skin, easing away some of the tension. 

As he washes, he tries to recall more of the previous night. Jim remembers clearly being “gently” accosted outside the precinct by two of Oswald’s men, carrying the message that he was being summoned. He remembers debating with himself all afternoon before finally deciding to go, if only to find out why Oswald bothered. He remembers being handed a drink and watching as Oswald sipped at his own. He remembers the taunts, comments about what happened at Arkham, and the uselessness of the GCPD. He remembers looking at Ed, frozen and on display, and feeling...afraid. 

Why would he be afraid? Angry? Yes. Suspicious and wary? Sure. But not afraid. 

There’s something else, and it makes Jim want to beat his head against the shower wall, as if that would shake it lose. Something else he’s missing, something he should know, _needs_ to know, but it just keeps slipping away . He can hear Oswald speaking, hear his voice, his tone, and for whatever reason it sets Jim on edge, makes his fingers twitch with a compulsion to do..._something_. But for the life of him, he can’t grasp the words. He can’t piece together what happened when he visited the club, what was said, what was...done. 

And that’s dangerous. Oswald already has too much of an upper hand. The last thing Jim wants is to hand him another advantage. He needs to get his head on straight, and keep it there, if he’s going to have any hope of helping the city. Of stopping Oswald. And he knows, he knows he can’t do it alone. Harvey was right. Oswald isn’t going to be stopped by anything short of an army, and though he’ll try, Jim’s just one man. How long will he last on his own? How long can he stand against Oswald with nothing, no one at his back? 

Jim needs help. 

He has a vague recollection of Oswald telling him to take a holiday. Maybe he will. Somewhere down south. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can also be found over here on [tumblr](http://countessrivers.tumblr.com/).


End file.
